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FANNY  S   COTTAGE. 


Fftniiy,  Flower  Oirl. 


F  A  N  N  V. 

U2E    FLOWEB-GiBlj 
®x,  fffiustg  $ttoarh)». 


BY    SELINA    BUNBURY, 

AUTHOR  OP  "GLORY,   GLORY,  GLORY,"   BTO. 


TO  WHICH  ARE  ADDED  OTHER  TALES. 


SEW  YOEK: 
HURST  &  CO..  Publishers, 


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"  Come,  buy  my  flowers ;  flowers  fresh  and 
fair.  Come,  buy  my  flowers.  Please  ma'am,  buy 
a  nice  bunch  of  flowers,  very  pretty  ones,  ma'am. 
Please,  sir,  to  have  some  flowers ;  nice,  fresh 
ones,  miss;  only  just  gathered;  please  look." 

Thus  spoke,  or  sometimes  sung,  a  little  girl 
of  perhaps  eight  years  old,  holding  in  her  hand 
a  neat  small  basket,  on  the  top  of  which  lay  a 
clean  white  cloth,  to  shade  from  the  sun  the 
flowers  which  she  praised  so  highly,  and  a  lit- 
tle bunch  of  which  she  presented  to  almost 
every  passer-by,  in  the  hope  of  finding  pur- 
chasers ;  while,  after  one  had  passed  rudely  on, 
another  had  looked  at  her  young  face  and  smil- 
ed, another  had  said,  "  What  a  nice  child  lw  but 
not  one  had  taken  the  flow  ers,  and  left  the  penny 
or  the  half-penny  that  was  to  pay  for  them 


the  little  girl,  as  if  accustomed  to  all  this,  only 
arranged  again  the  pretty  nosegays  that  had 
been  disarranged  in  the  vain  hope  of  selling 
them,  and  commenced  anew  in  her  pretty  sing' 
ing  tone,  "  Come,  buy  my  flowers ;  flowers 
fresh  and  fair." 

"  Your  flowers  are  sadly  withered,  my  little 
maid,"  said  a  kind,  country-looking  gentleman, 
who  was  buying  some  vegetables  at  a  stall 
near  her. 

"  Oh,  sir !  I  nave  fresh  ones,  here,  sir ;  please 
look ;"  and  the  child  lifted  up  the  cover  of  her 
basket,  and  drew  from  the  very  bottom  a 
bunch  of  blossoms  on  which  the  dew  of  morn- 
ing still  rested. 

"Please  to  see,  sir;  a  pretty  rose,  sir,  and 
these  pinks  and  mignonette,  and  a  bunch  of 
jessamine,  sir,  and  all  for  one  penny." 

*  Bless  thee!  pretty  dear!"  said  the  old 
lame  vegetable-seller,  "  thou'lt  make  a  good 
market-woman  one  of  these  days.  Your  honor 
would  do  well  to  buy  her  flowers,  sir,  she  has 
got  no  mother  or  father,  God  help  her,  and 
works  for  a  sick  grandmother." 


"Poor  child!"  said  the  old  gentleman. 
"Here,  then,  little  one,  give  me  three  nice 
nosegajs,  and  there  is  sixpence  for  you." 

With  delight  sparkling  in  every  feature  of 
her  face,  and  her  color  changed  to  crimson 
with  joy,  the  little  flower-girl  received  in  one 
hand  the  unusual  piece  of  money;  and  setting 
her  basket  on  the  ground,  began  hastily  and 
tremblingly  to  pick  out  nearly  half  its  contents 
as  the  price  of  the  sixpence ;  but  the  gentle- 
man stooped  down,  and  taking  up  at  random 
three  bunches  of  the  flowers,  which  were  not 
the  freshest,  said, 

■-■  Here,  these  will  do ;  keep  the  rest  for  a 
more  difficult  customer.  Be  a  good  child; 
pray  to  God,  and  serve  Him,  and  you  will  find 
He  is  the  Father  of  the  fatherless. 

And  so  he  went  away;  and  the  flower-girl, 
without  waiting  to  put  her  basket  in  order, 
turned  to  the  old  vegetable-seller,  and  cried, 
"Sixpence !  a  whole  sixpence,  and  all  at  once. 
What  will  grandmother  say  now  ?  See  !"  and 
opening  her  hand,  she  displayed  its  shining 
af  atents  before  her  neighbor's  eyes. 


6  FANNY,   THE  FLOWER-GIRL. 

"Eh!5'  exclaimed  the  old  man,  as  he  ap- 
proached his  eyes  nearer  to  it.  "  Eh  I  what  is 
this  ?  why  thou  hast  twenty  sixpences  there ; 
this  is  a  half  sovereign  I" 

"Twenty  sixpences!  why  the  gentleman 
said,  there  is  sixpence  for  thee,"  said  the  child. 

"  Because  he  didn't  know  his  mistake,"  re- 
plied the  other ;  u.  I  saw  him  take  the  piece 
out  of  his  waistcoat-pocket  without  looking." 

"  Oh  dear !  what  shall  I  do  ?"  cried  the  littlo 
girl. 

"Why,  thou  must  keep  it,  to  be  sure,"  re- 
plied the  old  man  ;  "  give  it  to  thy  grandmo- 
ther, she  will  know  what  to  do  with  it,  I 
warrant  thee." 

"But  I  must  first  try  to  find  the  good  gen- 
tleman, and  tell  him  of  his  mistake,"  said  the 
child.  "  I  know  what  grandmother  would  say 
else ;  and  he  cannot  be  far  off,  I  think,  because 
he  was  so  fat ;  he  will  go  slow,  I  am  sure,  this 
hot  morning.  Here,  Mr.  Williams,  take  care 
of  my  basket,  please,  till  I  come  back." 

And  without  a  word  more,  the  flower-girl 
put  down  her  little  basket  at  the  foot  of  the 


FANNY    THE  FLOWER  GIRL.  7 

vegetable-stall,  and  ran  away  as  fast  as  she 
could  go. 

When  she  turned  out  of  the  market-place, 
she  found,  early  as  it  was,  that  the  street  be- 
fore her  was  pretty  full ;  but  as  from  the  pas- 
sage the  gentleman  had  taken  to  leave  the 
market  place,  she  knew  he  could  only  have 
gone  in  one  direction,  she  had  still  hopes  of 
rinding  him  ;  and  she  ran  on  and  on,  until  she 
actually  thought  she  saw  the  very  person  be- 
fore her ;  he  had  just  taken  off  his  hat,  and 
was  wiping  his  forehead  with  his  handkerchief. 

"That  is  him,"  said  the  little  flower-girl,  "1 
am  certain ;"  but  just  as  she  spoke,  some  per- 
sons came  between  her  and  the  gentleman,  and 
she  could  not  see  him.  Still  she  kept  running 
on ;  now  passing  off  the  foot-path  into  the 
street,  and  then  seeing  the  fat  gentleman  still 
before  her  ;  and  then  again  getting  on  the  foot- 
path, and  losing  sight  of  him,  until  at  last  she 
came  up  quite  close  to  him,  as  he  was  walking 
slowly,  and  wiping  the  drops  of  heat  from  hia 
forehead. 

The  poor  child  was  then  quite  out  of  breatn ; 


8  FANNY,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL. 

and  when  she  got  up  to  him  she  could  not  call 
out  tc  him  to  stop,  nor  say  one  word ;  so  she 
caught  hold  of  the  skirt  of  his  coat,  and  gave 
it  a  strong  pull. 

The  gentleman  started,  and  clapped  one 
hand  on  his  coat-pocket,  and  raised  up  his  cane 
in  the  other,  for  he  was  quite  sure  it  was  a 
pickpocket  at  his  coat.  But  when  he  turned, 
he  saw  the  breathless  little  flower-girl,  and  he 
looked  rather  sternly  at  her,  and  said, 

"Well,  what  do  you  want;  what  are  you 
about?  eh!" 

11  Oh,  sir !"  said  the  girl ;  and  then  she  be- 
gan to  cough,  for  her  breath  was  quite  spent. 
"See,  sir;  you  said  you  gave  me  sixpence, 
and  Mr.  Williams  says  there  are  twenty  six- 
pences in  this  little  bit  of  money." 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  gentleman;  "is  it 
possible?  could  I  have  done  such  a  thing?" 
and  he  began  to  fumble  in  his  waistcoat 
pocket. 

"  Well,  really  it  is  true  enough,"  he  added, 
as  he  drew  out  a  sixpence.  "See  what  it  is  to 
put  gold  and  silver  together." 


9 

"I  wish  lie  would  give  it  to  me,"  thought 
the  little  flower-girl;  "how  happy  it  would 
make  poor  granny ;  and  perhaps  he  has  got  a 
good  many  more  of  these  pretty  gold  pieces," 

But  the  old  gentleman  put  out  his  hand, 
and  took  it,  and  turned  it  over  and  over,  and 
seemed  to  think  a  little ;  and  then  he  put  his 
hand  into  his  pocket  again,  and  took  out  his 
purse ;  and  he  put  the  half-sovereign  into  the 
purse,  and  took  out  of  it  another  sixpence. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  there  is  the  sixpence  I 
owe  you  for  the  flowers ;  you  have  done  right 
to  bring  me  back  this  piece  of  gold  ;  and  there 
is  another  sixpence  for  your  race  ;  it  is  not  a 
reward,  mind,  for  honesty  is  only  our  dutVj 
and  you  only  did  what  is  right ;  but  you  are 
tired,  and  have  left  your  employment,  and 
perhaps  lost  a  customer,  so  I  give  you  the  other 
sixpence  to  make  you  amends." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  flower-girl,  curt- 
seying; and  taking  the  two  sixpences  into  hei 
hand  with  a  delighted  smile,  was  going  to  run 
back  again,  when  the  old  gentleman,  pulling 
out   a  pocket-book,  said,  "Stay   a  moment; 


10  FANNY,   THE   FLOWEK-GIRL. 

you  are  an  orphan,  they  tell  me ;  what  is  your 
name  ?" 

"  Fanny,  sir." 

"Fanny  what?" 

"Please,  I  don't  know,  sir;  grandmother  is 
Mrs.  Newton,  sir ;  but  she  says  she  is  not  my 
grandmother  either,  sir." 

"  Well,  tell  me  where  Mrs.  Newton  lives," 
said  the  gentleman,  after  looking  at  her  a 
minute  or  so,  as  if  trying  to  make  out  what 
she  meant. 

So  Fanny  told  him,  and  he  wrote  it  down 
in  his  pocket-book,  and  then  read  over  what 
he  had  written  to  her,  and  she  said  it  was  right. 

"  Now,  then,  run  away  back,"  said  he,  "and 
sell  all  your  flowers,  if  you  can,  before  they 
wither,  for  they  will  not  last  long  this  warm 
day ;  flowers  are  like  youth  and  beauty — do 
you  ever  think  of  that?  even  the  rose  withereth 
afore  it  groweth  up."  And  this  fat  gentleman 
looked  very  sad,  for  he  had  lost  all  his  children 
in  their  youth. 

"  O  yes !  sir ;  I  know  a  verse  which  says 
that,"  replied  Fanny.     "All  flesh  is  grass,  and 


FANNY,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL.  11 

all  the  goodliness  thereof  is  as  the  flower  of 
grass — but  good  morning,  and  thank  you,  sir," 
and  away  Fanny  ran. 

And  now,  before  going  on  with  my  story, 
I  must  go  back  to  tell  who  and  what  Fanny, 
the  flower-girl,  was. 

Mrs.  Newton,  whom  she  called  her  grand- 
mother, was  now  a  poor  old  woman,  confined 
to  her  bed  by  a  long  and  trying  illness,  that 
had  nearly  deprived  her  of  the  use  of  her 
limbs.  But  she  had  not  been  always  thus 
afflicted.  Some  years  before,  Mrs.  Newton 
lived  in  a  neat  cottage  near  the  road-side,  two 
or  three  miles  from  one  of  the  great  sea-port 
towns  of  England.  Her  husband  had  good 
employment,  and  they  were  both  comfortable 
and  happy. 

Just  eight  years  from  this  time,  it  happened 
that  one  warm  summer's  day,  Mrs.  Newton 
went  to  look  out  from  her  cottage  door  down 
the  road,  and  she  saw  a  young  woman  stand- 
ing there,  leaning  against  a  tree,  and  looking 
very  faint  and  weak. 

She  was  touched  with  pity  and  asked  tho 


12  FANNY,   THE    FLOWER-GIRL 

poor  traveller  to  walk  into  her  house  and  rest. 
The  young  woman  thankfully  consented,  for 
she  said  she  was  very  ill ;  but  she  added,  that 
her  husband  was  coming  after  her,  having  been 
obliged  to  turn  back  for  a  parcel  that  was  left 
behind  at  the  house  where  they  had  halted 
some  time  before,  and  therefore  she  would  sit 
near  the  door  and  watch  for  him. 

Before,  however,  the  husband  came,  the  poor 
woman  was  taken  dreadfully  ill ;  and  when  he 
did  arrive,  good  Mrs.  Newton  could  not  bear 
to  put  the  poor  creature  out  of  the  house  in 
such  a  state ;  she  became  worse  and  worse.  In 
short,  that  poor  young  woman  was  Fanny's 
mother,  and  when  little  Fanny  was  born,  that 
poor  sick  mother  died,  and  Fanny  never  saw 
a  mother's  smile. 

The  day  after  the  young  woman's  death, 
kind  Mrs.  Newton  came  into  the  room  where 
her  cold  body  was  laid  out  on  the  bed ;  and 
there  was  her  husband,  a  young,  strong- look- 
ing man,  sitting  beside  it ;  his  elbows  were  on 
his  knees,  and  his  face  was  hid  in  his  open 
hands. 


13 

Mrs.  Newton  had  the  baby  in  her  arms,  and 
Bhe  spoke  to  its  father  as  she  came  in;  he 
looked  up  to  her ;  his  own  face  was  as  pale  as 
death ;  and  he  looked  at  her  without  saying  a 
word.  She  saw  he  was  in  too  much  grief 
either  to  speak  or  we^p.  So  she  went  over 
silently  to  him,  and  put  the  little  baby  into  his 
arms,  and  then  said,  "May  the  Lord  look  down 
with  pity  on  you  both." 

As  soon  as  the  unhappy  young  man  heard 
these  compassionate  words,  and  saw  the  face  of 
his  pretty,  peaceful  babe,  he  burst  into  tears ; 
they  rolled  in  large  drops  down  on  the  infant's 
head. 

Then  in  a  short  time  he  was  able  to  speak, 
and  he  told  Mrs.  Newton  his  sad  little  history; 
how  he  had  no  one  in  the  whole  world  to  look 
with  pity  on  him,  or  his  motherless  child ;  and 
hew  God  alone  was  his  hope  in  this  day  of 
calamity.  His  father  had  been  displeased  with 
him  because  he  had  married  that  young  woman, 
whom  he  dearly  loved ;  and  he  had  given  him 
some  money  that  was  his  portion,  and  would 
do  POthing  else  for  him.     The  young  man  had 


14 

taken  some  land  and  a  house,  but  as  the  rent 
was  too  high,  he  could  not  make  enough  of 
the  land  to  pay  it ;  so  he  had  been  obliged  tc 
sell  all  his  goods,  and  he  had  only  as  much 
money  left  as  would,  with  great  saving,  carry 
him  to  America,  where  he  had  a  brother  who 
advised  him  to  go  out  there. 

"And  now/'  said  he,  looking  over  at  the 
pale  face  of  his  dear  wife,  "  What  shall  I  do 
with  the  little  creature  she  has  left  me  ?  how 
shall  I  carry  it  over  the  wide  ocean  without  a 
mother  to  care  for  it,  and  nurse  it  ?" 

"You  cannot  do  so,"  said  Mrs.  Newton, 
wiping  her  eyes;  "leave  it  with  me;  I  have 
no  children  of  my  own,  my  husband  would 
like  to  have  one;  this  babe  shall  lie  in  my 
bosom,  and  be  unto  me  as  a  daughter.  I  will 
nurse  it  for  you  until  you  are  settled  in  America, 
and  send  or  come  for  it." 

The  young  man  wept  with  gratitude ;  he 
wanted  to  know  how  he  was  to  repay  Mrs. 
Newton,  but  she.  said  for  the  present  she  did 
not  want  payment,  that  it  would  be  a  pleasure 
to  her  to  have  the  baby ;   and  it  would   be 


15 

time  enough  to  talk  about  payment  when  the 
father  was  able  to  claim  it,  and  take  it  to  a 
home. 

So  the  next  day  they  buried  the  poor  young 
woman,  and  soon  after  the  young  man  went 
away  and  sailed  off  to  America,  and  from  that 
day  to  this  Mrs.  Newton  had  never  heard  any- 
thing of  him. 

As  she  had  said,  that  poor  little  motherless 
babe  lay  in  her  bosom,  and  was  unto  her  as  a 
daughter ;  she  loved  it ;  she  loved  it  when  it 
was  a  helpless  little  thing,  weak  and  sickly ;  she 
loved  it  when  it  grew  a  pretty  lively  baby,  and 
would  set  its  little  feet  on  her  knees,  and  crow 
and  caper  before  her  face ;  she  loved  it  when 
it  began  to  play  around  her  as  she  sat  at  work, 
to  lisp  out  the  word  "  Ganny,"  for  she  taught  it 
to  call  her  grandmother ;  she  loved  it  when  it 
would  follow  her  into  her  nice  garden,  and 
pick  a  flower  and  carry  it  to  her,  as  she  sat  in 
the  little  arbor ;  and  she,  holding  the  flower, 
would  talk  to  it  of  God  who  made  the  flower, 
and  made  the  bee  that  drew  honey  from  the 
flower,  and  made  the  sun  that  caused  the  flower 


16  FANNY,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL. 


^^  to  grow,  and  the  light  that  gave  the  flower  its 
colors,  and  the  rain  that  watered  it,  and  the 
earth  that  nourished  it.  And  she  loved  that 
child  when  it  came  back  from  the  infant 
school,  and  climbed  up  on  her  lap,  or  stood 
with  its  hands  behind  its  back,  to  repeat  some 
pretty  verses  about  flowers,  or  about  the  God 
who  made  them.  That  child  was  Fanny,  the 
■  flower-girl ;  and  ah !  how  little  did  good  Mrs. 
Newton  think  she  would  be  selling  flowers  in 
the  streets  to  help  to  support  her. 

But  it  came  to  pass,  that  when  Fanny  was 
nearly  six  years  old,  Mrs.  Newton's  husband 
fell  very  ill ;  it  was  a  very  bad,  and  very  ex- 
pensive illness,  for  poor  Mrs.  Newton  was  so 
uneasy,  she  would  sometimes  have  two  doctors 
to  see  him  ;  but  all  would  not  do ;  he  died :  and 
Mrs.  Newton  was  left  very  poorly  off. 

In  a  short  time  she  found  she  could  not  keep 
on  her  pretty  cottage;  she  was  obliged  to  leave 
it ;  and  the  church  where  she  had  gone  every 
Sunday  for  so  many  years;  and  the  church-yard 
where  her  husband  was  buried,  and  little 
Fanny's  mother;  and  the  infant  school  where 


IT 

Fanny  learned  so  much ;  and  the  dear  Lttle 
garden,  and  the  flowers  that  were  Fanny's 
teachers  and  favorites.  Oh !  how  sorry  was 
poor  Mrs.  Newton.  But  even  a  little  child 
can  give  comfort;  and  so  little  Fanny,  perhaps 
without  thinking  to  do  so,  did ;  for  when  Mrs. 
Newton  for  the  last  time  sat  out  in  her  garden, 
and  saw  the  setting  sun  go  down,  and  told 
Fanny  she  was  going  to  leave  that  pretty 
garden,  where  she  had  from  infancy  been 
taught  to  know  God's  works,  the  child  looked 
very  sad  and  thoughtful  indeed,  for  some  time; 
but  afterwards  coming  up  to  her,  said, 

"But,  grandmother,  we  shall  not  leave  God, 
shall  we?  for  you  say  God  is  everywhere,  and 
He  will  be  in  London  too." 

And  oh!  how  that  thought  consoled  poor 
Mrs..  Newton ;  she  did  not  leave  God, — God 
did  not  leave  her. 

So  she  left  the  abode  oi  her  younger  years 

— the  scene  of  her  widowhood  ;  and  she  went 

away  to  hire  a  poor  lodging  in  the  outlets  of 

London ;  but  her  God  was  with  her,  and  the 

2* 


18  FANNY,    THE  FLOWER-GIRL. 

child  she  had  nursed  in  her  prosperity  was  her 
comfort  in  adversity. 

Matters,  however,  went  no  better  when  she 
lived  with  little  Fanny  in  a  poor  lodging.  She 
had  only  one  friend  in  London,  and  she  lived 
at  a  distance  from  her.  Mrs.  Newton  fell  ill ; 
there  was  no  one  to  nurse  her  but  Fanny ;  she 
could  no  longer  pay  for  her  schooling,  and 
sometimes  she  was  not  able  to  teach  her  herself. 

All  this  seemed  very  hard,  and  very  trying ; 
and  one  would  have  been  tempted  to  think 
that  God  was  no  longer  with  poor  Mrs.  Newton ; 
that  when  she  had  left  her  cottage  she  had  left 
the  God  who  had  been  so  good  to  her. 

But  this  would  have  been  a  great  mistake . 
God  was  with  Mrs.  Newton ;  He  saw  fit  to  try 
and  afflict  her ;  but  He  gave  her  strength  and 
patience  to  bear  her  trials  and  afflictions. 

One  afternoon  her  friend  came  to  pay  her  a 
visit:  she  was  going  out  a  little  way  into  the 
country  to  see  a  relation  who  had  a  very  fine 
nursery-garden,  and  she  begged  Mrs.  Newton 
to  let  little  Fanny  go  with  her  own  daughter. 
Mrs.  Newton  was  very  glad  to  do  so,  for  sho 


FANNY,   THE  FLOWER  GIEL.  19 

thought  it  would  be  a  nice  amusement  for 
Fanny. 

The  nurseryman  was  very  kind  to  her ;  ana 
when  she  was  going  away  gave  her  a  fine  bunch 
of  flowers.  Fanny  was  in  great  delight,  for 
she  loved  flowers  and  knew  her  dear  grand- 
mother loved  them  too.  But  as  she  was 
coming  back,  and  just  as  she  was  entering  the 
streets,  she  met  a  lady  and  a  little  boy  of  about 
three  years  old,  who  directly  held  out  his  hands 
and  began  to  beg  for  the  flowers.  His  mamma 
stopped,  and  as  Fanny  was  very  poorly  dressed, 
she  thought  it  probable  that  she  would  sell  her 
nosegay,  and  so  she  said, 

"  Will  you  give  that  bunch  of  flowers  to  my 
little  boy,  and  I  will  pay  you  for  it?" 

"  Please,  ma'am,  they  are  for  grandmother," 
said  Fanny  blushing,  and  thinking  she  ought 
to  give  the  flowers  directly,  and  without  money 
to  any  one  who  wished  for  them. 

"But  perhaps  your  grand-mother  would 
rather  have  this  sixpence?'*  said  the  lady. 
And  Mrs.  "Newton's  friend,  whc  had  just  come 
up,  said, 


20  FANNY,   THE  FLOWER  GIRL. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  take  the  lady's  sixpence, 
and  let  her  have  the  flowers  if  she  wishes  for 
them." 

So  Fanny  held  the  flowers  to  the  lady,  who 
look  them  and  put  the  sixpence  in  her  hand. 
Fanny  wished  much  to  ask  for  one  rose,  but 
she  thought  it  would  not  be  right  to  do  so, 
when  the  lady  had  bought  them  all :  and  she 
looked  at  them  so  very  longingly  that  the  lady' 
asked  if  she  were  sorry  to  part  with  them. 

"Oh  !  no,  ma'am,"  cried  her  friend,  "she  is 
not  at  all  sorry — come  now,  don't  be  a  fool, 
child,"  she  whispered,  and  led  Fanny  on. 

"  That  is  a  good  bargain  for  you,"  she  added 
as  she  went  on ;  "  that  spoiled  little  master  has 
his  own  way,  I  think ;  it  would  be  well  for 
you,  and  your  grandmother  too,  if  you  could 
Bell  sixpenny  worth  of  flowers  every  day." 

"Do  you  think  I  could,  ma'am?"  said 
Fanny,  opening  her  hand  and  looking  at  her 
sixpence,  "  this  will  buy  something  to  do  poor 
granny  good ;  do  you  think  Mr.  Simpson 
would  give  me  a  nosegay  every  day  ?" 

"  If  you  were  to  pay  him  for  it,  he  would," 


21 

said  her  friend ;  "  suppose  you  were  to  go  every 
morning  about  five  o'clock,  as  many  others  do, 
and  buy  some  flowers,  and  then  sell  them  at 
the  market ;  you  might  earn  something,  and 
that  would  be  better  than  being  idle,  when 
poor  Mrs.  Newton  is  not  able  to  do  for  herself 
and  you." 

So  when  Fanny  got  back,  she  gave  her  dear 
grandmother  the  sixpence. 

"  The  Lord  be  praised  I"  said  Mrs.  Newton, 
"  for  I  scarcely  knew  how  I  was  to  get  a  loaf 
of  bread  for  thee  or  myself  to-morrow." 

And  then  Fanny  told  her  the  plan  she  had 
formed  about  the  flowers. 

Mrs.  Newton  was  very  sorry  to  think  her 
dear  child  should  be  obliged  to  stand  in  a 
market  place,  or  in  the  public  streets,  to  offer 
anything  for  sale ;  but  she  said,  "  Surely  it  is 
Providence  has  opened  this  means  of  gaining 
a  little  bread,  while  I  am  laid  here  unable  tc 
do  anything ;  and  shall  I  not  trust  that  Provi 
dence  with  the  care  of  my  darling  child  ?" 

So  from  this  time  forth  little  Fanny  set  off 
every  morning  before  five  o'clock,  to  the  nur- 


22  FANNY,   THE  FLOWER  aiRL. 

sery  garden ;  and  the  nursery-man  was  very 
kind  to  her,  and  always  gave  her  the  nicest 
flowers ;  and  instead  of  sitting  down  with  the 
great  girls,  who  went  there  also  for  flowers  or 
vegetables,  and  tying  them  up  in  bunches, 
Fanny  put  them  altogether  in  her  little  basket, 
and  went  away  to  her  grandmother's  room, 
and  spread  them  out  on  the  little  table  that 
poor  Mrs.  Newton  might  see  them,  while  the 
sweet  dew  was  yet  sparkling  on  their  bright 
leaves. 

Then  she  would  tell  how  beautiful  the  gar- 
den looked  at  that  sweet  early  hour ;  and  Mrs. 
Newton  would  listen  with  pleasure,  for  she 
loved  a  garden.  She  used  to  say,  that  God 
placed  man  in  a  garden  when  he  was  happy 
and  holy;  and  when  he  was  sinful  and  sorrow- 
ful, it  was  in  a  garden  that  the  blessed  Saviour 
wept  and  prayed  for  the  sin  of  the  world;  and 
when  his  death  had  made  atonement  for  that 
sin,  it  was  in  a  garden  his  blessed  body  was  laid. 

Mrs.  Newton  taught  Fanny  many  things 
from  flowers ;  she  was  not  a  bad  teacher,  in 
her  own  simple  way,  but  Jesus  Christ,  who  was 


23 

the  best  teacher  the  world  ever  had,  instructed 
his  disciples  from  vine^  and  lilies,  corn  and 
fruit,  and  birds,  and  all  natural  things  around 
them. 

And  while  Fanny  tied  up  her  bunches  o* 
flowers,  she  would  repeat  some  verses  from  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  such  as  this,  "  O  Lord,  how 
manifold  are  thy  works !  in  wisdom  hast  rhou 
made  them  all :  the  earth  is  full  of  thy  riches." 
And  afterwards  she  would  repeat  such  pretty 
lines  as  these : — 

"  JNot  worlds  on  worlds,  in  varied  form, 
Need  we,  to  tell  a  God  is  here ; 
The  daisy,  saved  from  winter's  storm, 
Speaks  of  his  hand  in  lines  as  clear. 

"  For  who  but  He  who  formed  the  skies, 

And  poured  the  day-spring's  living  flood, 
Wondrous  alike  in  all  He  tries, 
Could  reai%  the  daisy's  simple  bud  ? 

"  Mould  its  green  cup,  its  wiry  stem, 
Its  fringed  border  nicely  spin ; 
And  cut  the  gold-embossed  gem, 
That,  shrined  in  silver,  shines  within; 

M  And  fling  it,  unrestrained  and  free, 
O'er  hill,  and  dale,  and  desert  sod, 
That  man,  where'er  he  walks,  may  sot 
In  every  step  the  trace  of  God" 


24  FAN2T2.    THE  FLOWER-GIRL 

"  And  I,  too,  have  had  my  daisy  given  to 
me,"  poor  Mrs.  Newton  would  say,  with  tear- 
ful eyes,  as  she  gazed  on  her  little  flower-girl ; 
"  I  too  have  my  daisy,  and  though  it  may  be 
little  cared  for  in  the  world,  or  trodden  under 
foot  of  men,  yet  will  it  ever  bear,  I  trust,  the 
trace  of  God." 

But  it  happened  the  very  morning  that  the 
gentleman  had  given  Fanny  the  half-sovereign 
in  mistake,  Mrs.  Newton's  money  was  quite 
spent ;  and  she  was  much  troubled,  thinking 
the  child  must  go  the  next  morning  to  the 
garden  without  money  to  pay  for  her  flowers, 
for  she  did  not  think  it  likely  she  would  sell 
enough  to  buy  what  they  required,  and  pay 
for  them  also ;  so  she  told  Fanny  she  must 
ask  Mr.  Simpson  to  let  her  owe  him  for  a  day 
or  two  until  she  got  a  little  money  she  ex- 
pected. 

Fanny  went  therefore,  and  said  this  to  the 
kind  man  at  the  garden ;  and  he  put  his  hand 
on  her  bead,  and  said,  "My  pretty  little  girl, 
you  may  owe  me  as  long  as  you  please,  for 
you  are  a  good  child,  and  God  will  prosper  you." 


FANNY,   THE  FLO  WEE-GIRL.  25 

So  Fanny  went  back  in  great  delight,  and 
told  this  to  Mrs.  Newton;  and  to  cheer  her 
still  more,  she  chose  for  her  morning  verse, 
the  advice  that  our  Lord  gave  to  all  those  who 
were  careful  and  troubled  about  the  things  of 
this  life  "  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field,  how 
they  grow;  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they 
spin ;  and  yet  I  say  unto  you  that  Solomon, 
in  all  his  glory,  was  not  arrayed  like  one  of 
these.  Wherefore,  if  God  so  clothe  the  grass 
of  the  field,  which  to-day  is,  and  to-morrow  is 
cast  into  the  oven,  shall  he  not  much  more 
clothe  you,  oh  ye  of  little  faith?" 

And  then  she  repeated  some  verses  which 
both  she  and  Mrs.  Newton  liked  very  much. 

"  Lo  1  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
How  their  leaves  instruction  yield ! 
Hark  to  nature's  lesson,  given 
By  the  blessed  birds  of  heaven. 

"  Say  with  richer  crimson  glows, 
The  kingly  mantle  than  the  rose ; 
Say  are  kings  more  richly  dressed, 
Than  the  lily's  glowing  vest  ? 

"Grandmother,  ]  forget  the  next  verse," 
3 


26  FANNY,   THE  FLOWER-GIRL. 

said  Fanny,  interrupting  herself;  "  I  know  it 
is  something  about  lilies  not  spinning;  but 
then  comes  this  verse — 

"  Barns,  nor  hoarded  store  have  we" — 

11  It  is  not  the  lilies,  grandmother,  but  the 
'blessed  birds'  that  are  speaking  now — 

"  Barns,  nor  hoarded  store  have  we, 
Yet  we  carol  joyously ; 
Mortals,  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow." 

Poor  Mrs.  Newton  clasped  her  thin  hands, 
and  looked  up,  and  prayed  like  the  disciples, 
"  Lord,  increase  our  faith  !" 

"Eh!"  said  she,  afterwards,  "is  it  not 
strange  that  we  can  trust  our  Lord  and  Sa- 
viour with  the  care  of  our  souls  for  eternity, 
and  we  cannot  trust  Him  with  that  of  our 
bodies  for  a  day." 

Well  I  this  was  poor  Mrs.  Newton's  state 
on  that  day,  when  the  gentleman  gave  Fanny 
the  half-sovereign  instead  of  sixpence,  for  her 
flowers. 


27 

When  the  little  flower-girl  came  back  from 
her  race  with  her  two  sixpences,  she  found  the 
old  vegetable-seller  had  got  her  three  or  four 
pennies  more,  by  merely  showing  her  basket, 
and  telling  why  it  was  left  at  his  stall ;  and  so 
every  one  left  a  penny  for  the  honest  child, 
and  hoped  the  gentleman  would  reward  her 
well.  The  old  man  at  the  stall  said  it  was 
very  shabby  of  him  only  to  give  her  sixpence ; 
but  when  she  went  home  with  three  sixpences 
and  told  Mrs.  Newton  this  story,  she  kissed 
her  little  girl  very  fondly,  but  said  the  gentle- 
man was  good  to  give  her  sixpence,  for  he  had 
no  right  to  give  her  anything,  she  had  only 
done  her  duty. 

u  But,  grandmother,"  said  Fanny,  "  when  I 
saw  that  pretty  half-sovereign  dropping  down 
Into  his  purse,  I  could  not  help  wishing  he 
would  give  it  to  me." 

"And  what  commandment  did  you  break 
then,  my  child?" 

"Not  the  eighth— if  I  had  kept  the  half- 
sovereign  I  should  have  broken  it,"  said  Fan* 
ny,  "  for  that  says,  thou  shalt  not  steal — what 


28 

commandment  did  I  break,  grandmother;  foi 
I  did  not  steal  ?" 

"When  we  desire  to  have  what  is  not  oura 
Fanny,  what  do  we  do?  we  covet;  do  wc 
not?" 

11  Oh !  yes — thou  shalt  not  covet  thy  neigh- 
bor's goods,"  cried  Fanny,  "that  is  the  tenth 
commandment;  and  that  half-sovereign  was 
my  neighbor's  goods,  and  that  fat  gentlemaD 
was  my  neighbor.  But,  grandmother,  it  is 
very  easy  to  break  the  tenth  commandment." 

"Very  easy  indeed,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Newton,  with  first  a  faint  smile,  and  then  a 
deep  sigh,  "therefore,"  she  added,  "we  ought 
always  to  pray  like  David,  '  Turn  away  mine 
eyes  from  beholding  vanity.'  " 

There  is  a  very  common  saying,  that  when 
things  are  at  the  worst  they  mend.  It  is  hard 
to  say  when  matters  are  at  the  worst;  poor 
Mrs.  Newton  knew  they  might  yet  be  worse 
with  her ;  but  certainly,  they  were  very  bad ; 
and  a  few  days  after  this,  as  Fanny  was  tying 
up  her  flowers  as  usual,  she  lay  on  her  bed 
thinking  what  she  was  to  do,  and  praying  that 


29 

God  would  direct  her  to  some  way  of  provide 
ing  for  the  poor  child. 

While  she  was  thinking  and  praying,  tears 
stole  down  her  face;   Fanny  saw  them,  and 
stopped  her  work,  and  looked  sorrowfully  at,,, 
her — 

"  Now  you  are  crying  again,  grandmother,' 
she  said,  "  and  that's  what  makes  me  break  the 
tenth  commandment,  for  I  can't  help  wishing 
the  gentleman  had  given  me  that  half-sover- 
eign- But  I  will  say  the  verses  again  to-day 
about  the  lilies  and  birds :  for  vou  know  I  said 
that  morning — 

'  Mortals  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow,' 

and  when  I  came  back  with  my  three  six- 
pences, you  said  God  had  provided  for  the 
morrow,  for  you  had  only  two  or  three  pennies 
in  the  house  when  I  went  out." 

"  And  how  many  pennies,  pray,  have  you  in 
the  house  to-day?"  said  a  rather  gruff  voice 
at  the  door. 

Mrs,  Newton  and  Fanny  started  j  bat  there, 
3*  * 


30  FANNY,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL. 

standing  at  the  door,  Fanny  saw  the  fat  gen- 
tleman who  had  given  her  the  half-sovereign. 

"  So  you  have  been  wishing  for  my  gold, 
you  little  rogue,"  he  said,  looking  as  if  he 
meant  to  frighten  her.  "Never  mind,"  he 
added,  smiling,  "you  are  a  good  child,  and  did 
what  was  right;  and  I  always  meant  to  bring 
it  back  to  you,  but  I  have  been  kept  rather 
busy  these  few  days  past.  There  it  is  for  you, 
and  try  not  to  break  the  tenth  commandment 
again."  Then  turning  to  Mrs.  Newton,  he 
said,  "  We  should  not  expect  rewards,  ma'am, 
for  doing  our  duty,  but  if  children  do  not 
meet  with  approbation  when  they  do  right, 
they  may  be  discouraged,  and  perhaps  think 
there  is  no  use  in  being  good:  for  they  are 
silly  little  creatures,  you  know,  and  do  not  al- 
ways recollect  that  God  will  reward  the  just 
one  day  if  men  do  not." 

"Oh !  sir!"  said  poor  Mrs.  Newton,  but  the 
tears  streamed  down,  and  she  could  not  say  a 
word  more.  And  there  Fanny  sat  gazing  on 
the  half-sovereign,  as  if  she  was  half  stupefied. 

"Well,  take  up  that  bit  of  gold,  and  do 


31 

what  you  like  with  it,"  said  the  fat  gentleman; 
"  and  then  run  off  to  sell  your  flowers,  for  we 
must  not  be  idle  because  we  have  got  enough 
for  to-day.  But  do  what  you  like  with  that 
money." 

Fanny  rose  up  from  her  seat,  and  looking 
very  much  as  if  she  was  moving  in  her  sleep, 
with  her  wondering  eyes  fixed  on  the  shining 
piece  that  lay  in  her  hand,  she  walked  slowly 
over  to  Mrs.  Newton,  and  putting  it  into  hers, 
said, — 

"  May  I  go  to  the  grocer's  now,  grandmother, 
and  get  you  the  tea  for  your  breakfast  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  kissing 
her,  uand  take  care  of  this,  and  bring  back 
the  change  carefully."  Then  turning  to  the 
gentleman,  she  said,  "I  am  not  young,  sir,  and 
T  am  very,  very  poorly ;  I  find  it  hard  to  go 
without  my  tea,  but  it  is  a  luxury  I  have  been 
obliged  latterly  to  forego." 

"But  could  you  not  get  tea  on  credit,  from 
the  grocer  ?"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  Oh  I  yes,  I  believe'  so ;  but  there  would  be 
no  use  in  getting  credit;"  said  Mrs.  Newton, 


32  FANNY,   THE  FLOWER-GIRL. 

"  for  I  am  not  certain  of  being  better  able  to 
pay  next  week  than  I  am  this  week ;  and  when 
I  have  not  the  money  to  pay  for  what  I  wish 
to  get,  it  is  better  to  do  without  it,  than  to  add 
to  one's  anxieties  by  running  in  debt.  Do  you 
not  think  so,  sir?" 

"Ma'am,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  sitting 
down,  and  resting  his  large  silver-topped  stick 
between  his  knees,  "it  is  of  very  little  conse- 
quence what  I  think;  but  if  you  wish  to  know 
this,  I  will  tell  you  that  I  think  very  well 
both  of  you  and  your  little  girl,  who,  as  I  have 
heard,  for  I  have  made  inquiries  about  you 
both,  is  a  dependant  on  your  bounty.  You 
have*  trained  her  up  well,  though  I  wouldn't 
praise  the  child  to  her  face;  and  so  take  as 
much  tea  as  you  like  till  you  hear  from  me 
again,  and  your  grocer  need  be  in  no  trouble 
about  his  bill." 

So  after  the  fat  gentleman  had  made  this 
rather  bluff,  but  honest-hearted  speech,  and 
poor  Mrs.  Newton  had  wept,  and  thanked  him 
in  language  that  sounded  more  polite,  the  good 
old  gentleman  told  her  his  whole  history. 


FANNY,   THE  FLOWER-GIRL.  33 

lie  began  the  world  very  poor,  and  without 
relations  able  to  assist  him;  he  was  at  last 
taken  into  the  employment  of  a  young  mer* 
chant  in  the  city ;  he  had  a  turn  for  business, 
and  having  been  able  to  render  some  important 
services  to  this  young  man,  he  was  finally,  to 
his  own  surprise,  and  that  of  every  one  else, 
taken  into  partnership. 

"  During  all  this  time,"  said  he,  "  I  was  at- 
tached from  my  boyhood  to  the  daughter  of 
the  poor  schoolmaster  who  first  taught  me  to 
read ;  I  would  not  marry  her  while  I  was  poor, 
for  I  thought  that  would  be  to  make  her 
wretched  instead  of  happy ;  but  when  I  was 
taken  into  partnership  I  thought  my  way  was 
clear ;  I  went  off  to  Bethnal  Green,  and  told 
Mary,  and  our  wedding-day  was  settled  at 
once.  Well,  we  were  glad  enough,  to  be  sure ; 
bu  t  a  very  few  days  after,  my  partjier  called 
me  into  the  private  room,  and  said  he  wanted 
to  consult  me.  He  seemed  in  high-spirits,  and 
he  told  me  he  had  just  heard  of  a  famous  spec- 
ulation, by  which  we  could  both  make  our  for* 
tunes  at  once.     He  explained  what  it  was,  and 


34  FANNY,   THE  FLOWER-GIRL. 

I  saw  with  shame  and  regret,  that  no  really 
honest  man  could  join  in  it:  I  told  him  so;  1 
told  him  plainly  I  would  have  nothing  to  do 
with  it.  You  may  think  what  followed  ;  the 
deeds  of  partnership  were  not  yet  signed,  and 
in  short,  in  two  or  three  days  more  I  found 
myself  poor  Jack  Walton  again — indeed, 
poorer  than  I  was  before  I  was  made  one  of 
the  firm  of  Charters  and  Walton,  for  I  had  lost 
my  employment. 

"  Often  and  often  I  used  to  think  that  David 
said,  he  had  never  seen  the  righteous  forsaken ; 
yet  I  was  suffering  while  the  unrighteous  were 
prospering.  It  was  a  sinful,  and  a  self-right- 
eous thought,  and  I  was  obliged  to  renounce 
it;  when,  after  some  time  of  trial,  a  gentleman 
sent  for  me — a  man  of  wealth,  and  told  me  his 
son  was  going  into  business  on  his  own  ac- 
count ;  that  he  had  heard  of  my  character,  and 
of  the  cause  of  my  leaving  Mr.  Charters;  that 
he  thought  I  would  be  just  such  a  steady  per- 
son as  he  wished  his  son  to  be  with.  In  short, 
I  began  with  him  on  a  handsome  salary ;  was 
soon  made  his  partner;  married  Mary,  and 


35 

had  my  snug  house  in  the  country.  Mr.  Char 
ters  succeeded  in  that  speculation  ;  entered  into 
several  others,  some  of  which  were  of  a  more 
fraudulent  nature,  failed,  and  was  ruined.  He 
ran  olf  to  America,  and  no  one  knows  what 
became  of  him.  I  have  left  business  some 
years.  I  purchased  a  nice  property  in  the 
country,  built  a  Church  upon  it,  and  have  eve- 
thanked  God,  who  never  forsakes  those  who 
wish  to  act  righteously. 

"  It  pleased  God  to  take  all  my  sweet  chil- 
dren from  me — every  state  has  its  trials — the 
youngest  was  just  like  your  little  flower-girl." 

Mrs.  Newton  was  much  pleased  with  this 
story ;  she  then  told  her  own,  and  little  Fan 
ny's.  The  fat  gentleman's  eyes  were  full  of 
tears  when  she  ended;  when  he  was  going 
away  he  put  another  half-sovereign  into  her 
hand,  and  saying,  "  The  first  was  for  the  child," 
walked  out  of  the  house. 

A  short  time  afterwards,  a  clergyman  came 
to  see  Mrs.  Newton — she  was  surprised;  he 
sat  and  talked  with  her  some  time,  and  seemed 
greatly  pleased  with  her  sentiments,  and  all 


she  told  him  of  herself  and  Fanny.  He  then 
told  her  that  he  was  the  clergyman  whom  Mr. 
Walton,  on  the  recommendation  of  the  bishop 
of  the  diocese,  had  appointed  to  the  church  he 
had  built;  that  Mr.  Walton  had  sent  him  to 
see  her,  and  bad  told  him,  if  he  was  satisfied 
with  all  he  saw  and  heard,  to  invite  Mrs.  New- 
ton and  the  little  flower-girl  to  leave  London, 
and  go  and  live  in  one  of  the  nice  widows' 
houses,  which  good  Mr.  Walton  had  built,  near 
the  pretty  village  where  he  lived. 

Then  there  was  great  joy  in  poor  Mrs.  New- 
ton's humble  abode;  Mrs.  Newton  was  glad 
for  Fanny's  sake,  and  Fanny  was  glad  for  Mrs. 
Newton's  sake,  so  both  were  glad,  and  both 
said — 

"  Mortals  fly  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow." 

But  the  only  difference  was,  that  Mrs.  New- 
ton said  it  with  watery  eyes  and  clasped  hands, 
lying  on  her  bed  and  looking  up  to  heaven ; 
and  Fanny — merry  little  thing! — said  it  frisk- 
ing and  jumping  about  the  room,  clapping  her 
hands  together,  and  laughing  her  joy  aloud. 


FANNY,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL.  87 

Well,  there  was  an  inside  place  taken  in  the 

B coach,  for  Mrs.  Newton  and  Fanny; 

and  not  only  that,  but  kind  Mrs.  Walton  sent 
up  her  own  maid  to  London,  to  see  that  every- 
thing was  carefully  done,  as  the  poor  woman 
was  ill,  and  help  to  pack  up  all  her  little  goods ; 
and,  with  her,  she  sent  an  entire  new  suit  of 
clothes  for  the  flower-girl. 

They  set  off,  and  when  they  got  near  to  the 
village  the  coachman  stopped,  and  called  out 
to  know  if  it  were  the  first,  or  the  last  of  the 
red  cottages  he  was  to  stop  at ;  and  Mrs.  Wal- 
ton's maid  said,  '■  The  last, — the  cottage  in  the 
garden."  So  they  stopped  at  such  a  pretty 
cottage,  with  a  little  garden  before  and  behind 
it.  Mr.  Walton  had  known  what  it  was  to  be 
poor,  and  so,  when  he  grew  rich,  he  bad  built 
these  neat  houses,  for  those  who  had  been  rich 
and  become  poor.  They  were  intended  chiefly 
for  the  widows  of  men  of  business,  whose 
character  had  been  good,  but  who  had  died 
without  being  able  to  provide  for  their  fami- 
lies. *%Ie  had  made  an  exception  in  Mrs.  New- 
ton7" case,  and  gave  her  one  of  the  best  houses, 


38 

because  it  had  a  pretty  garden,  which  he 
thought  others  might  not  care  for  so  much. 

They  went  inside,  and  there  was  such  a  neat 
kitchen,  with  tiles  as  red  as  tiles  could  be ;  a 
little  dresser,  with  all  sorts  of  useful  things; 
anicaclock  ticking  opposite  the  fire-place,  and 
a  grate  as  bright  as  blacklead  could  make  it. 
And  then  there  was  such  a  pretty  little  room 
at  one  side,  with  a  rose  tree  against  the  win- 
dow; and  a  little  shelf  for  books  against  the 
wall ;  and  a  round  table,  and  some  chairs,  and 
an  easy  couch.  And  there  were  two  nice  bed- 
rooms overhead;  and,  better  than  all  these, 
was  a  pretty  garden.  Oh!  how  happy  wag 
the  little  flower-girl;  and  how  thankful  was 
poor  Mrs.  Newton!  The  first  thing  she 
did  was  to  go  down  on  her  knees  and  thank 
God. 

Then  Fanny  was  to  go  to  the  school,  foi 
Mrs.  Walton  had  her  own  school,  as  well  as 
the  national  school ;  but  Fanny  did  not  know 
enough  to  go  to  it,  so  she  was  sent  to  the  na- 
tional school  first,  and  afterwards  she  went  to 
the  other,  where  about  a  dozen  girls  were  in« 


39 

Btructed  in  all  things  that  would  be  useful  to 
them  through  life — whether  they  were  to  eai 
their  bread  at  service,  or  to  live  in  theif  own 
homes  as  daughters,  wives,  or  mothers. 

But  every  morning,  before  she  went  out,  she 
did  everything  for  her  dear,  good  grandmother. 
She  made  her  breakfast;  she  arranged  her 
room ;  and  she  gathered  some  fresh  flowers  in 
the  garden,  and  put  them  on  the  table  in  the 
little  parlor.  Oh !  how  happy  was  Fanny 
when  she  looked  back,  and  saw  how  nice 
everything  looked,  and  then  went  out  singing 
to  her  school — 

"  Barns,  nor  hoarded  store  have  we, 
Yet  we  carol  joyously ; 
Mortals  flee  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow." 

But  God  will  not  provide  for  the  morrow, 
where  people  will  do  nothing  to  provide  for 
themselves;  and  so  Fanny,  the  flower-girl, 
knew,  for  surely  God  had  blessed  the  labor  of 
her  childish  hands. 

Thus  passed  time  away ;  and  Fanny,  under 


40 

the  instruction  that  she  had  at  church,  at 
school,  and  at  home,  "grew  in  grace,  and  in 
the  knov 'ledge  and  love  of  God,  and  of  Jesus 
Christ  our  Lord." 

Good  Mrs.  Newton  was  much  better  in 
health,  and  used  to  walk  about  sometimes 
without  any  support  but  Fanny's  arm,  and  so 
time  went  on  till  Fanny  came  to  be  about  fif- 
teen ;  and  then  Mrs.  Newton,  who  was  not 
always  free  from  "doubt  and  sorrow,"  began 
to  think  what  was  to  become  of  her  if  she  were 
to  die. 

So  one  day,  when  kind  Mr.  Walton,  whom 
Fanny  used  once  to  call  the  fat  gentleman, 
came  in  to  see  her,  Mrs.  Newton  told  him  that 
she  was  beginning  to  feel  anxious  that  Fanny 
should  be  put  in  a  way  of  earning  her  own 
bread,  in  case  she  should  be  taken  from  her. 

Mr.  Walton  listened  to  her,  and  then  ho 
said, — 

"You  are  very  right  and  prudent,  Mrs. 
Newton,  but  never  mind  that;  I  have  not  for- 
gotten my  little  flower-girl,  and  her  race  aftei 
me  that  hot  morning:    if  you  were  dead,  I 


FANNY,   THE   FLO  >VER-GIRL.  41 

Would  take  care  of  her ;  and  if  we  both  were 
dead,  Mrs.  Walton  would  take  care  of  her; 
and  if  Mrs.  Walton  were  dead,  God  would 
take  care  of  her.  I  see  you  cannot  yet  learn 
the  little  lines  she  is  so  fond  of — 

"  '  Mortals  flee  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow.'  " 

Well,  not  very  long  after  this  conversation 
came  a  very  warm  day,  and  in  all  the  heat  of 
the  sun  came  Mr.  Walton,  scarcely  able  to 
breathe,  into  Mrs.  Newton's  cottage;  he  was 
carrying  his  hat  in  one  hand,  and  a  newspaper 
in  the  other,  and  his  face  was  very  red  and 
hot. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Newton,"  said  he,  "  what  is  all 
this  about? — I  can't  make  it  out ;  here  is  your 
name  in  the  paper!" 

"My  name,  sir!"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  staring 
at  the  paper. 

"  Aye,  indeed  is  it,"  said  Mr.  Walton,  put« 
ting  on  his  spectacles,  and  opening  the  papei 
at  the  advertisement  side, — usee  here  I" 

And  he  began  to  read, — 
.4* 


42  FANNY,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL. 

"If  Vts.  Newton,  who  lived  about  fifteen 

years  ago   near  the   turnpike  on   the  P 

road,  will  appl}*  to  Messrs.  Long  and  Black, 
she  will  hear  of  something  to  her  advantage. 
Or  should  she  be  dead,  any  person  who  can 
give  information  respecting  her  and  her  fam- 
ily, will  be  rewarded." 

Mrs.  Newton  sat  without  the  power  of 
speech — so  much  was  she  surprised;  at  last 
she  said,  "It  is  Fanny's  father! — I  know,  I 
am  sure  it  can  be  no  one  else!'' 

Mr.  Walton  looked  surprised,  for  he  had 
never  thought  of  this ;  he  was  almost  sorry  to 
think  his  little  flower-girl  should  have  another 
protector.  At  length  he  said  it  must  be  as 
Mrs.  Newton  thought,  and  he  would  go  up  to 
London  himself  next  day,  and  see  Mr.  Long  and 
Mr.  Black.  So  he  went;  and  two  days  after- 
wards, when  Fanny  had  returned  from  Mrs. 
Walton's  school,  and  was  sitting  with  Mrs. 
Newton  in  the  little  shady  arbor  they  had 
made  in  the  garden,  and  talking  over  early 
days,  when  they  used  to  sit  in  another  arbor, 
and  Fanny  used  to  learn  her  first  lessons  from 


FANNY,    THE   FLOWER-GIRL.  43 

flowers,  then  came  Mr.  "Walton  walking  up 
the  path  towards  them,  and  with  him  was  a 
fine-looking  man,  of  about  forty-five  years  of 
age. 

Mrs.  Newton  trembled,  for  when  she  looked 
in  his  face  she  remembered  the  features ;  and 
she  said  to  herself,  "Now,  if  he  takes  my  Fan- 
ny from  me  ? — and  if  he  should  be  a  bad  man  ?# 
Bat  when  this  man  came  nearer,  he  stepped 
hastily  beyond  Mr.  Walton,  and  catching  Mrs. 
Newton's  hands,  he  was  just  going  to  drop  on 
his  knees  before  her,  when  he  saw  Fanny  star- 
ing at  him ;  and  a  father's  feelings  overcame 
every  other,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy  he  extended 
his  arms,  and  exclaiming  "  my  child  I — my 
child !"  caught  her  to  his  breast. 

Then  there  followed  so  much  talk,  while  no 
one  knew  scarcely  what  was  saying;  and  it 
was  Mr.  Walton,  chiefly,  that  told  how  Fanny's 
father  had  had  so  much  to  struggle  against, 
and  so  much  hardship  to  go  through,  but  how 
he  had  succeeded  at  last,  and  got  on  very  well ; 
how  he  had  tried  then  to  find  out  Mrs.  Newton 
and  his  dear  little  Fanny,  but  could  not,  because 


44  FANNY,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL. 

Mrs.  Newton  had  changed  her  abode  ;  how,  at 
last,  he  had  met  with  a  good  opportunity  to 
sell  his  land,  and  had  now  come  over  with  the 
money  he  had  earned,  to  find  his  child,  and 
repay  her  kind  benefactor. 

Oh,  what  a  happy  evening  was  that  in  the 
widow's  cottage!  the  widow's  heart  sang  for 
joy.  The  widow,  and  she  that  had  always 
thought  herself  an  orphan,  were  ready  to  sing 
together — 

"  Mortals  flee  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow." 

Mrs.  Newton  found  that  Mr.  Marsden,  that 
was  the  name  of  Fanny's  father,  was  all  that 
she  could  desire  Fanny's  father  to  be : — a  Chris 
tian  in  deed  and  in  truth;  one  thankful  to 
God  and  to  her,  for  the  preservation  and  care 
of  his  child;  and  who  would  not  willingly 
separate  Fanny  from  her,  or  lether  leave  Fanny. 

As  he  found  Mrs.  Newton  did  not  wish  to 
leave  kind  Mr.  Walton's  neighborhood,  and 
that  his  daughter  was  attached  to  it  also,  Mr 
Marsden  t  Dok  some  land  and  a  nice  farm-house, 


FANNY,   THE   FLOWER- GIEL.  45 

not  far  from  the  Manor  House,  where  Mr. 
Walton  lived.  He  had  heard  all  about  the 
half-sovereign,  and  loved  his  little  flower-girl 
before  he  saw  her. 

So  Mrs.  Newton  had  to  leave  her  widow's 
house ;  and  she  shed  tears  of  joy,  and  regret, 
and  thankfulness,  as  she  did  so ;  she  had  been 
happy  there,  and  had  had  God's  blessing  upon 
her  and  her  dear  girl. 

But  Fanny  was  glad  to  receive  her  dear, 
dear  grandmother  into  her  own  father's  house; 
her  own  house  too;  and  she  threw  her  arms 
round  the  old  lady's  neck,  when  they  got  there, 
and  kissed  her  over  and  over  again,  and  said, 
"  Ah !  grandmother,  do  you  recollect  when  I 
was  a  little  girl  tying  up  my  flowers  while  you 
lay  sick  in  bed,  I  used  to  say  so  often — 

"  ■  Mortals  flee  from  doubt  and  sorrow, 
God  provideth  for  the  morrow.' " 

They  had  a  large  garden  at  the  farm-house, 
and  Fanny  and  Mrs.  Newton  improved  it ;  and 
Mrs.  Newton  would  walk  out,  leaning  on  Fan- 
ny's arm,  and  look  at  the  lilies  and  roses,  and 


46  FANTST,   THE   FLOWER-GIRL. 

jessamine,  and  mignonette,  and  tall;  of  past 
times,  and  of  their  first  garden,  aad  tlieir  first 
flowers,  and  of  their  first  knowledge  of  the  God 
who  made  them  ;  who  watches  the  opening 
bud,  and  the  infant  head;  who  sends  his  rain 
upon  the  plant,  and  the  dew  of  his  blessing 
upon  the  child  who  is  taught  to  know  and  love 
Him.  And  Fanny's  father,  when  he  joined 
them,  talked  over  his  trials  and  dangers  from 
the  day  that  his  poor  wife  lay  dead,  and  his 
helpless  buby  lay  in  his  arms,  aud  then  he 
blessed  the  God  who  had  led  him  all  his  life 
long,  and  crowned  him  with  loving-kindness. 

Three  years  passed,  and  Fanny,  the  little 
flower-girl,  was  a  fine  young  woman.  A 
farmer's  son  in  the  neighborhood  wished  to 
get  her  for  his  wife;  but  her  father  was  very 
sorry  to  think  of  her  leaving  him  so  soon  for 
another  home. 

He  spoke  to  Fanny  about  it,  and  said, — 
"My  dear  girl,  I  have  no  right  to  expect  you 
Bhould  wish  to  stay  with  me,  for  I  never  was 
able  to  watch  over  your  childhood  or  to  act  a 
father's  part  by  you." 


FANNY,   THK  FLOWER-GIRL  47 

And  Fanny  answered,  with  a  blush,  and 
smile,  u  And  I,  father,  was  never  able  to  act  a 
daughter's  part  by  you  until  now,  and  there- 
fore I  think  you  have  every  right  to  expect  I 
should  do  so  for  some  time  longer.  I  have  no 
objection*  to  be  Charles  Brierley's  wife,  and  I 
have  told  him  so :  but  we  are  both  young,  and 
at  all  events  I  will  not  leave  you." 

"Now,"  said  Mrs.  Newton,  who  was  sitting 
by,  "instead  of  that  young  man  taking  more 
land,  which  is  very  dear  about  here,  would  it 
not  be  a  good  plan  if  he  were  to  come  and  live 
with  you,  Mr.  Marsden,  and  help  you  with  the 
farm." 

And  Mr.  Marsden  said,  a  That  is  the  very 
thing ;  I  will  go  and  speak  to  him  about  it ; 
and  Fanny  and  her  husband  can  have  the 
house,  and  farm,  and  all,  as  much  as  they 
please  now,  and  entirely  at  my  death." 

So  it  was  all  settled ;  and  Fanny  was  mar- 
ried at  the  village  church,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
"Walton  were  at  the  wedding.  Good  Mrs. 
Newton  lived  on  at  the  farm-house,  and  when 
Fanny's  first  child  was  born,  it  was  put  into 


48 

her  arms.  Then  she  thought  of  the  time  when 
Fanny  herself  was  laid  in  the  same  arms ;  and 
she  blessed  God  in  her  heart,  who  had  en- 
abled herto  be  of  use  to  one  human  creature, 
and  to  one  immortal  soul  and  mind,  while  she 
passed  through  this  life  to  the  life  everlasting. 
Joy  and  sorrow  are  always  mingled  on  this 
earth;  so  it  came  to  pass  that  before  Fanny's 
first  child  could  walk  alone,  good,  kind  Mrs. 
Newton  died,  and  was  buried.  As  a  shock  of 
corn  cometh  in  in  its  season,  so  she  sank  to 
rest,  and  was  gathered  into  the  garner  of  her 
Lord.     But — 

"  The  memory  of  the  just 
Is  blessed,  though  they  sleep  in  dust ;" 

and  Fanny's  children,  and  children's  children, 
will  learn  to  love  that  memory. 

Many  a  day,  sitting  at  work  in  her  garden, 
with  htr  little  ones  around  her,  Fanny  let 
them  gather  some  flowers,  and  talk  to  her 
about  them ;  and  then  they  would  beg,  as  a 
reward  for  good  conduct,  that  she  would  tell 


49 

them  about  her  dear  grandmother  and  her 
own  childish  days ;  and  much  as  children  love 
to  hear  stories,  never  did  any  more  delight  in 
a  story,  than  did  these  children,  in  the  stoi  v 
of  Fanny,  the  Flower-Gill. 
5 


Little  Frances  was  crying  ;  her  sister  Mar/ 
hearing  her  sobs,  ran  in  haste  to  inquire  what 
had  happened  ;  and  saw  her  sitting  in  a  corner 
of  the  nursery,  looking  rather  sulky,  as  if  she 
had  recently  received  some  disappointment. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  little  Frances  ? 
why  do  you  cry  so  ?" 

Frances  pouted,  and  would  make  no  reply. 

"  Tell  me,  dear  Frances  ;  perhaps  I  can  do 
something  for  you." 

"  Nothing,  Mary,"  she  sobbed,  "  only" — 
"     "  Only  what,  little  Frances  ?     It  cannot  be 
nothing  that  makes  you  cry  so  bitterly.' ' 

"  Only  mamma  would  not  give — "  she  look- 
ed a  little  ashamed,  and  did  not  finish  her  sen- 
tence. 

"  What  would  she  not  give  C 


52  CONVEMENT  FOOD. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Nothing  I  0  Frances,  I  am  afraid  there 
is  something  naughty." 

Frances  shook  her  elbows,  as  if  troubled  by 
Mary's  inquiries,  but  the  tears  continued  flow- 
ing  down  her  cheeks. 

Just  at  that  moment  their  sister  Anne  came 
into  the  room,  singing  in  the  joy  of  her  heart, 
with  a  piece  of  plum-cake  in  her  hand,  holding 
it  up,  and  turning  it  about  before  her  sisters 
to  exhibit  her  newly -acquired  possession,  on 
which  Frances  fixed  her  eyes  with  eager  gaze, 
and  the  tears  flowed  still  faster,  accompanied 
with  a  kind  of  angry  sob. 

"  Frances  I  what  is  the  matter  that  you  are 
crying  so?  see  what  I  have  got!  you  will 
spoil  all  the  happiness  of  our  feast." 

At  the  word  feast,  Frances'  tears  seemed  ar- 
rested, and  her  mouth  looked  as  if  she  were 
going  to  smile.  She  left  the  corner,  and  im- 
mediately prepared  to  do  her  part  for  the 
feast,  setting  a  little  square  table,  and  then, 
drawing  her  own  little  stool,  seated  herself  in 
readiness  as  a  guest. 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  53 

"  Stay,"  said  Anne,  "  we  will  make  some 
little  paper  dishes  and  plates,  and  divide  the 
cake ;''  so  saying,  she  began  the  operation,  and 
laying  down  the  paper  dishes,  "there  at  the 
top,  see !  there  shall  be  two  chickens,  at  the 
bottom  a  piece  of  beef,  at  one  side  some  pota- 
toes, and  at  the  other  some  cauliflower;" 
breaking  her  cake  into  small  pieces  to  corre- 
spond to  her  imagined  provision. 

Frances  looked  very  impatient  at  the  long 
preparation,  and  as  Anne  seated  herself,  in- 
viting Mary  to  partake,  Frances  stretched 
out  her  hand  to  take  the  beef  for  her  own  por- 
tion. 

"  No,  no,  Frances,  you  must  not  help  your- 
self, you  know ;  wait  until  we  all  begin  in 
order." 

Frances  very  reluctantly  withdrew  her  hand, 
and,  whilst  she  waited,  betrayed  her  impa- 
tience by  a  little  jerking  motion  of  the  body, 
that  threw  he"  breast  against  the  table,  as  if 
she  would  beat  time  into  quicker  motion. 

uO  we  must  not  forget  William!"  Anne 

exclaimed  ;  "  where  is  he  ?  he  must  taste  our 
5* 


u4  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

feast ;  stay  here,   Mary,   with  Frances,  and  1 
will  go  and  find  him." 

Away  she  ran,  and  left  poor  Frances  in  a 
fret  at  this  additional  delay,  but  she  began  to 
amuse  herself  by  picking  up  the  small  crumbs 
that  had  been  scattered  on  the  stool,  and  at 
last  proceeded  to  touch  the  beef  and  chickens. 

"  Do  not  do  so,  Frances,"  Mary  said,  in  a 
reproving  voice. 

Frances  colored. 

"  Do  not  sit  looking  on,  it  you  are  so  impa 
tient;  employ  yourself,  and  get  a  seat  ready 
tor  William." 

"  You  may  get  it,  Mary." 

"Very  well;  only  do  not  meddle  with 
Anne's  feast." 

Mary  had  to  go  into  another  ro^m  for  the 
Beat,  and  whilst  she  was  away.  Frances  quickly 
helped  herself  to  half  of  the  pieces  which  were 
on  the  dishes,  and,  when  Mary  returned,  re- 
sumed her  position  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Mary  was  so  busy  in  arranging  the  seats,  that 
ahe  did  not  observe  what  had  been  done. 

Presently  Anne  came  back,  accompanied  by 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  55 

her  brother  William ;  hastening  to  her  place, 
and  looking  on  her  table,  she  started  with  sur- 
prise, and  seemed  to  say  to  herself,  as  she 
gazed,  How  came  I  to  make  a  mistake,  an 
think  my  pieces  of  cake  were  larger?  but  th 
expression  of  her  face  called  Mary's  attention, 
who  at  once  said, 

"  Anne,  I  am  sure  you  placed  larger  pieces 
on  your  dishes." 

"  Indeed,  I  thought  so,  Mary ;  who  has 
taken  any?" 

"  I  do  not  know." 

"  0  you  are  only  pretending,  and  you  have 
been  hiding  some." 

"  No,  Anne ;  I  would  not  have  said  I  do 
not  know,  if  I  had  hid  it." 

"  No,  no  more  you  would,  dear  Mary. 
Never  mind,"  she  said,  glancing  a  look  at 
Frances,  not  altogether  without  suspicion,  "  it 
is  only  to  play  with,  it  does  not  signify  whether 
it  is  much  or  little. 

"  William,  shall  I  help  you  to  a  little  chick- 
en?" 

"O  no,  Anne,  you  have  forgot,  help  the 


56  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

ladies  first ;  and  beside,  you  ought  to  have 
placed  me  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  to  carv< 
this  dish.     What  is  it?" 

"  Beef,  William. ' 

11  O  beef,  very  well.  Come,  Miss  Frances, 
let  me  sit  there,  and  you  come  to  the  side  of 
the  table." 

In  haste  to  begin  the  eating  part  of  the  play, 
she  rose  immediately  to  change  places,  when, 
to  her  disgrace,  a  quantity  of  crumbs,  which 
had  lodged  unobserved  in  a  fold  of  her  frock, 
fell  out,  and  disordered  the  neatness  of  the 
table. 

"  There  !"  said  William,  "  we  have  no  ques- 
tion to  ask  who  took  the  liberty  to  lessen  the 
dishes." 

"  For  shame,  William,  I—" 

"  O  Frances,  take  care  what  you  say,  tell 
no  falsehoods ;  I  will  tell  one  truth,  and  say 
you  are  a  greedy  girl." 

Frances  began  to  cry  again,  "  For  shame, 
William,  to  call  me  names." 

"  I  call  no  names,  I  only  say  what  I  think , 
and  how  can  I  help  it,  when  it  is  only  just 


COKVENIENT  FOOD.  57 

11  u¥  yon  cried  so,  because  you  said  mamma 
had  given  me  a  larger  piece  of  cake  than  your- 
self; for  you  must  know,"  he  continued,  turn- 
ing to  Mary,  "  we  have  both  had  one  piece 
before,  and  she  half  of  mine  to  make  her  quiet ; 
and  then  she  cried  again  because  a  piece  was 
put  by  for  you  and  Anne,  and  she  cannot  be 
contented  now,  though  Anne  shares  hers 
amongst  us.  If  this  is  not  being  greedy,  I  do 
not  know  what  greedy  means.  It  is  no  names, 
it  is  only  saying  what  a  thing  is." 

"  Now  I  know  another  thing,"  said  Anne ; 
"  when  mamma  called  me  to  receive  my  piece 
of  cake,  she  said,  '  And  you  shall  take  a  piece 
also  to  Mary/  but  when  she  unfolded  the 
paper,  there  was  only  one  piece  ;  mamma  did 
not  say  anything,  but  I  think  she  thought 
something." 

At  this  remark,  Frances  redoubled  her  cry- 
ing, but,  for  the  sake  of  a  share  of  the  present 
feast,  did  not  attempt  to  leave  the  party.  No 
more  was  said,  and  the  feast  was  concluded  in 
good  humor  by  all  except  the  conscious  greedy 
girl,  and  they  then  all  went  into  the  garden 


68  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

together  to  finish  their  hour's  recreation  before 
they  were  callecl  again  to  their  lessons. 

There  was  a  little  plantation  of  young  fir- 
trees  at  one  corner  of  the  garden,  intended  to 
grow  there  for  shelter  from  the  north-west 
wind  :  the  grass  was  so  high  amongst  them, 
that  the  gardener  had  orders  to  go  and  care- 
fully mow  it  down.  He  was  engaged  in  the 
business  when  the  children  ran  out  to  see  him 
work. 

"  Hush  1  hush  !"  he  exclaimed,  as  they  ap- 
proached, "  I  have  just  cleared  a  bough  from 
the  grass,  and  see  what's  there  !" 

All  curiosity,  they  went  forward  on  tip-toe, 
and  were  directed  to  something  lodged  on  the 
spreading  branch  of  a  young  larch. 

"  A  bird's  nest !"  said  William. 

"  A  bird's  nest !"  they  all  repeated.  "  But 
what  is  in  it,  I  cannot  tell."  » 

"Look  steadily,"  said  the  gardener,  :i  and 
you  will  find  out." 

It  was  difficult  to  trace  what  it  was ;  some- 
thing all  in  a  heap,  brown  naked  skin  ;  alive, 
as  might  be  known  by  the  heaving  breathing. 


CONVENIENT  POOD.  69 

William  putting  his  finger  to  touch  them, 
immediately  four  wide  mouths  stretched  open, 
with  little  tongues  raised,  and  the  opening  of 
their  throats  extended  to  the  utmost. 

"  Look  at  the  little  things,"  said  William  ; 
"  they  thought  their  mother  was  come  when  I 
touched  the  branch,  and  they  have  opened 
their  mouths  to  be  ready  to  receive  what  she 
would  put  in. 

"  They  are  blind  /"  said  William. 

"  Yes,  they  cannot  have  been  natched  more 
than  two  days." 

"  Will  they  take  what  the  mother  gives 
them  ?"  asked  William. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man,  "  they  trust  her,  and 
swallow  down  what  she  puts  into  their 
mouths." 

"  I  wish  the  mother  would  come,"  said  Anne. 

"  But  she  will  not  whilst  we  are  here,"  Wil- 
liam replied. 

:'  Touch  it  again,  William,"  said  Frances.  I 

William  touched  the  edge  of  the  nest. 
"See!"  said  he,  "they  think  the  mother  is 
some,  they  stretch  theii  mouths  still  ^ider." 


60  convenient  pood. 

"  Hark  !"  said  Mary,  "  what  an  impatient 
noise  they  make :  they  look  ready  to  stretch 
themselves  out  of  their  nest,  and  as  if  their 
little  mouths  would  tear." 

u  Poor  little  things  !  do  not  disappoint  them, 
give  them  something,''  said  Anne. 

"  We  have  not  proper  food  for  them,"  said 
William. 

"I  will  run  and  fetch  some  crumbs,"  said 
Mary. 

Mary  soon  returned  with  a  piece  of  bread, 
and  giving  it  to  her  brother  as  the  most  expe- 
rienced, he  broke  it  into  extremely  small 
crumbs,  and,  again  touching  the  nest,  awaken- 
ed the  expectation  of  the  young  birds :  they 
opened  their  mouths  wide,  and  as  he  dropped 
a  small  crumb  into  each,  they  moved  their 
tongues,  trying  to  make  it  pass  down  into  their 
throat.  "  Poor  little  things,  they  cannot  swal- 
low well,  they  want  the  mother  to  put  it 
gently  down  their  throat  with  her  beak." 

"  See  !  see  !"  said  all  the  girls,  "  they  want 
more,  give  them  more." 

William  dropped  his  crumbs  again. 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  61 

"  More,  more,  William ;  see  !  they  are  not 
satisfied." 

"I  dare  not  give  them  more  for  fear  of  kill- 
ing them,  we  cannot  feed  them  like  the  mo- 
ther. We  will  stand  still  at  a  little  distance, 
and  you  will  see  them  go  to  sleep."  When  4 
all  was  quiet,  the  little  nestlings  shut  their 
mouths,  and  dropped  their  heads. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  mother  feed  them." 

"  You  would  see  how  much  better  she 
would  do  it  than  we  can  ;  perhaps,  if  we  could 
conceal  ourselves  behind  that  laurel,  she  would 
come,  but  she  will  be  very  frightened,  because 
all  is  so  altered  now  the  grass  is  cut  down,  and 
her  nest  is  exposed  ;  but  I  dare  say  she  is  not 
far  off,  she  will  be  watching  somewhere." 

They  took  William's  hint,  and  retreated  be- 
hind the  laurel ;  they  had  not  waited  ten  min- 
utes, before  the  hen  bird  flitted  past,  and, 
darting  over  the  larch,  as  if  to  inspect  whether 
her  little  brood  was  safe,  she  disappeared  again. 
In  a  few  minutes  more,  she  returned,  skim- 
ming round  to  reconnoitre  that  all  was  safe, 
she  perched  upon  the  nest.  Instantly  the  little 
6 


I 


62  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

nestlings  were  awake  to  the  summons  of  her 
touch  and  chirp,  and,  opening  their  mouths 
wide,  were  ready  for  what  she  would  give. 
She  dropt  a  small  fly  into  the  mouth  of  one  of 
them,  and,  having  no  more,  flew  away  to  pro- 
vide for  the  other  hungry  mouths  as  fast  as 
she  could.  As  soon  as  she  was  gone,  they 
again  shut  their  mouths,  and  dropt  their  heads 
in  silence. 

"  What  a  little  bit  she  gave  them,"  said 
Frances. 

"  Yes,"  answered  William,  "  but  she  knows 
it  is  plenty." 

"How  contented  the  others  seem  to  wait  till 
she  comes  again !" 

"Yes,  Mary,"  William  again  answered,  un- 
able to  resist  the  comparison  which  had  come 
to  his  mind,  "they  did  not  take  the  little  bit 
away  from  the  other.  Shall  we  wait  till  she 
comes  again  ?" 

"Odo." 

"  Yery  well,  I  want  to  see  whether  the  one 
that  was  fed  first  will  take  away  the  bit  the 
others  got " 


CONVENIENT  FOOD  63 

The  allusion  made  a  little  laugh,  but,  seeing 
that  Frances  understood  and  felt  that  it  ap- 
plied to  her,  Anne  said,  "Do  not  let  us  tease 
Frances ;  it  is  better  to  tell  her  at  once  what 
her  fault  is,  than  to  seem  to  like  to  hurt  her." 

"  Indeed,  dear  Anne,  I  have  not  spared  to 
tell  her  her  fault,  as  she  knows  very  well,  for 
she  has  often  given  me  reason,  but  I  cannot 
make  her  ashamed  of  such  things  ;  and  I  know 
mamma  is  very  uneasy  to  see  it  in  her." 

Frances  looked  grave,  but  did  not  cry ; 
turning  pale,  however,  she  .said,  "O  Mary 
take  me  out  of  this  laurel — I  am  so  sick  I" 

Mary  hastened  to  take  her  into  the  freer  air, 
but  all  in  vain.  The  sisters  were  alarmed,  and 
took  her  in  to  their  mamma;  who  received 
her  gravely,  without  expressing  any  concern 
for  her  indisposition. 

"What  can  we  do  for  Frances,  mamma? 
Will  you  let  her  have  your  smelling  bottle, 
or  shall  I  run  and  get  some  sal  volatile  ?" 

"  Neither,  my  dear  Mary ;  it  is  an  indisposi 
tion  caused  by  her  own  selfish  appetite,  and 
probably  the  relief  may  be  obtained  by  her 


64  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

stomach  rejecting  what  she  so  improperly 
forced  upon  it.  We  will  wait  a  short  time, 
and  if  not,  I  will  give  her  something  less  pal- 
atable, perhaps,  than  plum-cake,  but  necessary 
to  remove  it." 

Frances  was  too  ill  to  make  any  remark ; 
she  became  paler  still,  and  then  quickly  flushed 
almost  a  crimson  color,  her  eyes  were  op- 
pressed, an'd  her  eyebrows  contracted,  and  she 
impatiently  complained, 

41 0  my  head !  how  it  beats  !  What  shall  I 
do,  mamma?" 

"Bear  the  consequences  of  your  own  in- 
ordinate appetite,  Frances,  and  learn  to  sub- 
ject it  to  the  wholesome  rules  of  temperance." 

44  0  the  nasty  plum-cake  I  I  wish  you  had 
not  given  me  any,  mamma." 

44  You  once  thought  the  plum-cake  nice,  and 
you  would  not  be  contented  with  the  small 
portion  I  knew  to  be  sufficient  and  safe  for 
you." 

"  O  m/  head  I  I  think  it  is  very  cruel,  mam- 
ma, that  you  do  not  pity  me." 

"  I  do  pity  you,  Frances,  and  will  take  care 


CONVENIENT   FOOD.  65 

of  you  now  that  I  see  you  require  help,  as  I 
perceive  tbat  you  will  not  have  any  relief 
without  medicine." 

Frances  began  again  to  cry,  "  O,  I  am  so  sick ! 
I  cannot  take  medicine.     I  am  sure  I  cannot." 

"  Come  to  your  room,  Frances ;  I  shall  give 
you  something  proper,  and  you  had  better  lie 
down  after  you  have  taken  it;  you  will,  per- 
haps, drop  into  a  sleep,  and  be  well  when  you 
awake  again."  Her  mamma  took  her  hand 
and  led  her  up  stairs,  and  Frances  knew  very 
well  it  was  in  vain  to  make  any  objection,  as 
her  mamma  always  made  a  point  of  obedience. 
The  medicine  was  administered,  although  for 
some  time  Frances  refused  to  look  at  it.  When 
she  laid  down,  her  mamma  placed  the  pillow 
high  under  her  head,  and,  drawing  the  curtain 
to  shade  the  light,  left  the  room  that  she 
might  be  perfectly  quiet.  And  when  she  re- 
turned to  the  drawing-room,  she  inquired  of 
the  other  children  what  they  had  been  doing, 
and  received  a  full  account  of  the  feast,  and 
the  bird's  nest,  and  all  the  little  circumstances 
of  each. 

6* 


66  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

It  was  time  to  resume  their  studies^  and,  ex- 
cept that  Frances  was  not  in  her  usual  place, 
all  things  proceeded  as  before.  When  the 
lessons  were  finished,  they  entreated  their 
mamma  to  go  with  them,  and  see  the  bird's 
nest." 

'•  It  is  so  pretty,  mamma !"  sa.d  Anne  ;  "  and 
+hey  know  when  the  mother  comes,  and  they 
take  what  she  puts  into  their  mouths." 

"We  will  first  inquire  after  Frances,"  she 
answered ;  "  if  she  is  well  enough,  she  can 
accompany  us." 

"  I  will  run  up,  if  you  will  be  putting  on 
your  bonnet  and  shawl,  mamma." 

"  Very  well,  I  hope  you  will  find  her  re- 
covered, we  will  wait  your  return." 

Anne  soon  returned, — "  She  is  gone  !  I  do 
not  see  her  anywhere  !" 

"  Gone  !  0  perhaps  we  shall  find  her  at  play 
in  the  garden." 

In  this  expectation  they  all  went  out,  and 
as  they  drew  near  the  spot  where  the  nest  was, 
tVy  saw  Frances  looking  very  eagerly  into 
the  nest,  and  seeming  to  be  in  some  agitation, 


CONYENIEXT  FOOD.  67 

then  she  ;hrew  something  out  of  her  hand, 
and  ran  away  as  if  wanting  not  to  be  seen. 

"  She  is  about  some  mischief,"  William  said, 
and  ran  forward  to  the  nest.  But  what  was 
his  grief  to  see  one  of  the  little  birds  dead  on 
the  ground,  two  others  in  the  nest  with  pieces 
of  bread  sticking  in  their  mouths,  gasping, 
unable  to  swallow  or  reject  it,  and  the  fourth 
with  its  crop  gorged,  and  slowly  moving  its 
little  unfledged  head  from  side  to  side,  strug- 
gling in  death. 

Full  of  sympathy  with  the  little  sufferer, 
and  indignant  with  Frances,  he  exclaimed, 
"  Provoking  girl !  she  has  stuffed  the  little 
creatures  as  she  would  like  to  stuff  herself; 
and  I  believe  she  has  killed  them  all." 

The  lively  interest  the  other  children  had 
in  the  nest,  impelled  them  to  hasten  to  the 
spot,  and  their  lamentations,  and  even  tears, 
soon  flowed. 

"  "William,  William,  cannot  you  do  anything 
for  them  ?  do  try." 

"Well,  stand  still  and  do  not  shake  my 
arm      so  saying,  he  began  the  attempt,  and 


68  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

drew  the  bread  carefully  out  of  the  distended 
mouths  of  the  two. 

"Now  the  other!  the  other,  William!" 

"  That  I  cannot  help,"  he  answered :  "  see  ! 
she  has  forced  it  down,  and  we  cannot  get  it 
back  again  ;  it  is  dying  now." 

Anne  picked  up  the  dead  one  from  off  the 
ground,  and  stroking  it  with  her  forefinger, 
"Poor  little  thing!"  she  said,  "was  she  so 
cruel  to  you !" 

It  was  not  long  before  they  heard  a  rustling 
in  the  tree  near  the  place,  and  then  a  chirp  of 
fright  and  distress.  "  Ah  !"  said  their  mamma, 
"  there  is  the  mother !  poor  things,  we  will  go 
a  little  distance  to  let  her  come  to  the  nest ; 
perhaps  she  will  be  able  to  save  the  two." 

They  all  withdrew,  and  the  little  parent 
bird  was  soon  on  her  nest,  fluttering  and  chirp- 
ing to  awaken  the  dead  and  dying  little  ones, 
till  at  length  she  sorrowfully  brooded  down 
on  her  nest,  and  spread  her  wings  over  them, 
occasionally  chirping  as  if  to  solicit  an  answer 
from  her  little  brood. 

"Oh!'   said  Mary,  bursting  into  tears,   WI 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  69 

cannot  bear  it !.  cruel  Frances,  to  be  so  unkind 
to  the  little  lards  !" 

"  Go  and  find  Frances,"  said  their  mamma, 
"  and  bring  her  to  me." 

"  I  will  go,"  William  answered,  "  I  think  I 
know  where  she  will  hide  herself." 

It  was  not  long  before  William  returned, 
leading  Frances,  who  very  reluctantly  yielded 
to  accompany  him. 

"Come  here,"  said  her  mamma,  "stopping 
the  accusations  she  saw  were  ready  to  over- 
whelm the  offending  little  girl ;  "  come  here, 
and  let  me  talk  to  you  about  this  sad  thing 
you  have  done  to  the  little  birds.  Do  you  see 
what  you  have  done  by  your  ill-judged  kind- 
ness ?" 

"Kindness  !  mamma,"  they  all  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  dear  children,  she  has  been  very 
faulty,  but  I  believe  she  meant  to  be  kind,  and 
through  ignorance  did  this  thing  which  proves 
the  death  of  the  birds.  You  would  not  have 
done  it,  William,  because  you  have  already 
learnt  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  necessary  pru- 
dence to  deal  out  your  morsel?  with  wisdom, 


70  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

and  in  a  measure  suited  to  the  age  and  the 

capacity  of  the  birds,  and  also  that  their  food 
should  be  of  a  wholesome  kind  suitable  to  their 
nature.  Nothing  of  this  did  Frances  know, 
and  it  seems  she  had  not  learnt  wisdom  from 
the  circumstances  she  had  herself  so  lately 
fallen  into. 

"It  reminds  me  of  the  scripture,  which 
teaches  us  to  profit :  '  Open  thy  mouth  wide, 
and  I  will  fill  it.'  These  little  birds  first  attract- 
ed your  attention  by  their  open  mouths,  which 
they  had  stretched  to  receive  what  their  poor 
mother  was  preparing  to  put  into  them.  As 
ohe  lighted  on  the  edge  of  their  nest,  they  in- 
stinctively opened  their  little  yellow-edged 
beaks ;  she  delighted  to  see  them  do  so  ;  and 
they,  taking  with  content  what  she  had  pro- 
vided for  them,  with  the  utmost  confidence 
swallowed  it  down.  She  had  a  bit  for  every 
one  of  them  in  turn  and  they  waited  patiently 
until  it  was  given  them.  All  was  well  whilst 
they  were  nourished  with  parental  tenderness 
and  prudence,  and  none  other  meddled  with 
them,  or  ventured  to  give  them  other  things, 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  71 

which  they,  being  blind,  received  and  knew 
not  the  hand  that  gave,  nor  the  consequences 
of  eating  food  not  such  as  their  parent  would 
have  provided. 

"  Here  you  see  Frances,  neither  prudent  noi 
aware  of  consequences,  has  stuffed  these  little 
birds  with  improper  food,  both  in  quality  and 
quantity.  The  consequences  are  fatal ;  one  is 
dead,  another  is  dying,  and  it  is  very  uncer- 
tain whether  the  others  also  will  not  die.  She 
fed  them  without  measure,  and  their  crops  and 
throats  were  gorged  so  as  to  stop  their  breath- 
ing. They  took  it  greedily,  because  they 
knew  not  the  fatal  consequences. 

"  Frances,  you  are  a  greedy  girl.  You  had 
been  suffering  for  this  offence,  and  had  not  the 
wisdom  to  leave  it  to  me  to  apportion  your 
food.  You  opened  your  mouth  wide,  but  you 
must  remember  it  is  not  written  that  you  are 
to  fill  it  according  to  your  own  desires.  '  I 
will  fill  it,7  saith  the  Lord.  He  knows  what  is 
good  for  us,  and  he  will  measure  his  bounty 
according  to  his  own  wisdeiu" 


72  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

Frances  began  to  look  ashamed  and  sorrow- 
ful. 

"I  was  to  you,"  her  mamma  continued,  "in 
the  affair  of  the  cake,  endeavoring  to  fulfil  this 
my  duty,  but  you  rebelled  against  my  discre- 
tion, and  would  covet  more  than  was  right 
You  helped  yourself ,  you  gorged  your  stomach, 
You  were  cross  and  peevish,  and  ill,  and  when 
the  medicine  had  relieved  you,  as  it  was  de- 
signed, you,  without  reflection,  sallied  forth  and 
suffocated  the  little  birds.  You  could  not  feed 
them  as  the  mother  would.  You  could  not  find 
in  the  air  and  on  the  ground  the  little  insects, 
and  small  worms  and  little  grains  which  were 
their  proper  food,  and  you  should  have  left  it 
to  their  own  mother  to  fill  their  opened 
mouths.  She  would  have  made  no  mistake 
either  in  the  quality  or  quantity  convenient  for 
them." 

"0,"  Mary  said,  "how  that  reminds  me  of 
the  scripture  in  Proverbs  xxx.  8:  'Feed  me 
with  food  convenient  for  me.'  " 

"  Yes,  my  dear  girl,  it  ;s  a  scripture  of  great 
importance     and  often   does  jt  impress   my 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  73 

mind  in  combination  with  the  other  I  men- 
tioned, Ps.  lxxxi.  10  :  '  Open  thy  mouth  wide, 
and  /will  fill  it,'  in  their  spiritual  application, 
when  I  am  providing  for  you,  and  dividing 
out  your  portions,  and  considering  what  diet 
is  most  suited  to  your  constitution,  and  limit- 
ing the  quantity  of  dainty  or  rich  luxuries  not 
convenient  for  you.  I  am  also  frequently  led 
to  apply  it  to  myself,  and  to  offer  my  petition 
to  the  Lord  that  he  will  graciously  judge  for 
me,  both  temporally  and  spiritually  to  fill  my 
mouth,  and  feed  me  with,  food  convenient  for 
me." 

"I  think  too,  mamma,  that  there  is  some 
meaning  belonging  to  this  in  our  Lord's  teach- 
ing us  to  pray,  'Give  us  this  day  our  daily 
bread,'  Matt.  vi.  11." 

"  Assuredly,  my  dear  child,  and  I  am  rejoiced 
to  find  you  are  led  by  this  subject  to  compare 
spiritual  things  with  spiritual. 

"You  see  how  the  word  of  God  interprets 
itself,  and  we  are  taught  to  go  direct  to  the 
bounteous  hand  who  giveth  liberally,  but  never 
wastefully     Our  daily  bread  is  sufficient  for  the 


71  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

day,  and  we  must  wait  on  him  still  for  the  daily 
bread  of  the  succeeding  day  ;  so  we  are  in 
structed  to  open  our  mouths  wide  to  ask  the 
Lord  to  fulfil  his  promise  and  to  fill  them,  and 
to  be  contented  with  convenient  food." 

"0  mamma,  you  cannot  think  how  many 
scriptures  seem  to  come  to  my  mind,  and  to 
give  me  a  clearer  understanding.  You  know 
the  manna  which  was  given  in  the  wilderness, 
was  convenient  food  when  it  was  gathered  daily 
as  the  Lord  commanded,  but  when  they  laid 
it  up,  you  know  it  was  no  longer  convenient, 
for  it  stunk  and  bred  worms.  Does  not  this 
teach  us  to  trust  God  as  well  as  not  to  disobey 
him?" 

"  May  this  ready  application  of  the  word  of 
God  proceed  from  that  grace,  my  child,  which 
teaches  you,  like  Job,  to  esteem  the  word  of 
God  more  than  your  necessary  food,  for  you 
will  also  remember  what  our  Lord  said  to  the 
tempter,  '  It  is  written,  Man  does  not  live  by 
hread  alone,  but  by  every  word  that  proceedeth 
out  of  the  mouth  of  God.'  But  we  are  too 
apt  to  forget  this,  and  to  imagine  that  we  can 


CONVENIENT  FOOD-  75 

provide  well  for  ourselves  by  fulfilling  the 
desires  and  lusts  of  the  flesh,  and  by  so  doing, 
we  are  likely  to  be  brought  to  forget  God,  the 
bountiful  and  wise  Supplier  of  all  our  wants." 

"I  remember  the  text,  mamma,  which  has 
in  it,  'Feed  me  with  food  convenient  for  me-,7 
and  in  another  part,  '  lest  I  be  full  and  deny 
thee,'  Prov.  xxx.  9 ;  and  this  little  bird's  nest 
has  helped  me  to  understand  it  better." 

"  May  the  Holy  Spirit  engrave  it  on  your 
heart,  for  it  will  often  remind  you  of  the  thank- 
ful contentedness  with  which  you  ought  to 
wait  on  the  Lord." 

''Yes,  mamma,"  William  said,  "but  there  is 
no  harm,  you  know,  in  opening  the  mouth 
wide.'''' 

"No,  William,  certainly  no  harm,  for  it  is  a 
duty.  '  Open  thy  mouth  wide,'  is  an  injunction 
of  Grod,  but  it  is  immediately  subjoined  and 
strictly  said,  '  and  I  will  fill  it.'  Therefore 
bear  in  mind  the  double  instruction.  Neither 
take  the  filling  on  yourself,  nor  be  ready  to 
swallow  every  crude  and  unwholesome  morsel 
which  the  ignorant  or  the  wicked  would  pre- 


76  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

sent  to  you.  Do  you  remember  a  Certain  day 
last  week  when  something  happened?" 

William  looked  anxious  to  recollect  what  big 
mamma  alluded  to,  and  in  less  than  a  minute 
he  shook  his  head,  and  said,  "  Ah,  mamma, 
that  is  too  bad,  you  mean  when  Mrs.  Arnot 
called,  and  you  were  out." 

"  Yes  I  do,  William  ;  you  all  opened  your 
mouths  wide,  and  she  filled  them.  Her  sweet 
things  did  not  prove  convenient  food.  You  see, 
therefore,  we  should  learn  to  discriminate  be- 
tween a  heavenly  Father's  provision,  and  that 
of  a  stranger,  whose  busy  interference  may  cost 
you  your  life.  I  was  not  many  minutes  away 
from  my  little  nest,  when  a  stranger  came, 
and,  by  mistaken  kindness  made  you  all  ill. 

"Frances,  have  you  never  read  that  scrip- 
ture :  c  Put  a  knife  to  thy  throat,  if  thou  be  a 
man  given  to  appetite.'" 

Frances  cried,  and,  sobbing,  said,  "  I  do  not 
know  what  it  means  ?" 

"  What  can  it  mean,  my  dear  Frances,  but 
parallel  with,  those,  'If  thy  right  eye  offend 
thee,  pluck  it  out     if  thy  right  hand  offend 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  77 

thee,  cut  it  off.  It  is  better  for  thee  to  enter 
into  life  halt  or  maimed,  than,  having  two 
hands  or  two  feet,  to  be  cast  into  everlasting 
fire,'  Matt.  xvvi.  29,  30.  ii.  8,  9.  It  means 
that  spirit  which  will  sacrifice  the  lust  of  the 
heart,  and  deny  itself,  though  it  should  be  a 
present  mortification.  The  throat  of  an  inordi- 
nate or  diseased  appetite  is  to  be  cut,  and  its 
carnal  desires  crucified." 

"Was  it  not  something  of  this  kind  that 
Isaac  fell  into  when  he  sent  Esau  to  hunt  ven- 
ison, and  make  him  savory  meat,  such  as  his 
soul  loved  ?  Gen.  xxvii.  4." 

"Yes,  William,  and  this  very  thing  he  de- 
sired presented  the  temptation  by  which  he 
was  deceived.  And  you  might  have  men- 
tioned, too,  how  Esau  himself  yielded  to  his 
appetite,  and  sold  his  birthright  for  a  mess  of 
pottage,  Gen.  xxv.  29.  When  we  yield  to 
these  propensities  of  the  flesh,  we  lay  a  snare 
for  our  own  souls,  and  expose  our  weakness 
to  an  adversary,  ever  ready  to  take  advan- 
tage of  our  infirmity.  It  is  a  common  fault 
m  children  to  desire  with  greedy  appetite  such 


78  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

fool  as  is  pernicious,  and  to  wish  for  more 
than  even  a  mouth  opened  wide  requires — till 
at  length  they  learn  to  lust  after  forbidden 
things.  And  what  does  it  lead  to  ?  Frances, 
you  began  to  pick  and  steal,  and  your  own 
iniquity  chastised  you: — you  were  sick  and 
ill." 

Frances  hid  her  face  in  her  frock. 

"Ah  mamma,"  said  Anne,  "I  shall  be  afraid 
of  wanting  anything,  as  I  used  to  do;  and  I 
hope  I  shall  remember  how  much  better  you 
can  feed  me,  than  I  can  feed  myself." 

"  I  wish  I  may  too,"  said  William.  "  If 
Eve  had  but  waited  for  the  Lord  only  to  fill 
her  mouth,  she  would  not  have  eaten  that 
which  brought  sin  and  death." 

"  Tell  me,  Frances,  if  you  feel  the  force  of 
all  we  have  learnt  from  the  little  birds,  and 
your  own  mistaken  idea  of  what  would  be 
good  for  tbem  ?" 

Frances  did  not  answer. 

"  But  you  know,  my  child,  you  were  guilty 
of  another  fault;  when  the  medicine  was  of- 
fered, whzoh  was  likely  to  do  you  good,  you 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  79 

refused  to  open  jour  mouth,  and  was  long  be- 
fore you  would  let  me  fill  it,  so  you  see  we 
must  leave  it  all  to  the  Lord  to  gi/e  us  much 
or  little,  bitter  or  sweet,  just  as  he  knows  to 
be  convenient  for  us." 

"Yes,"  Mary  said,  "these  poor  little  birds 
will  long  teack  us  a  lesson.  We  may  imitate 
them  to  open  our  mouth  wide,  but  we  must  be 
warned  by  what  happened  to  them,  to  let  the 
Lord  only  fill  them." 

"  Let  us  look  again  at  the  nest."  They  ap- 
proached, and  frightened  the  mother  so,  that 
she  flew  off. 

"  See,  see  !  William,"  said  Anne,  "the  two 
little  things  are  opening  their  mouths  again. 
O  how  delightful !  let  us  never  meddle  with 
them  any  more.  Only  remember,  '  Open  thy 
mouth  wide,  and  I  will  fill  it.'  Now,  Frances, 
do  not  cry  any  more :  come,  we  will  play  to- 
gether, and  make  a  coffin,  and  bury  these  little 
dead  birds." 

Frances  wiped  her  eyes,  and  Anne  giving 
her  a  kiss,  they  went  away  to  do  as  she  pro- 
posed.    After  they  had  made  a  little  coffin, 


BO  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

they  put  the  two  little  dead  birds  into  it 
Then  William  got  a  spade,  and  dug  a  grave 
just  large  enough  to  hold  the  little  coffin : 
and,  as  he  lowered  it  into  the  grave,  Mary 
wiped  away  the  tears  which  gathered  in  her 
eyes.  When  William  had  filled  up  the  grave, 
they  all  returned  to  their  mamma,  who  said — 

"My  dear  children,  do  not  let  us  dismiss 
this  interesting  subject  without  a  closer  appli- 
cation. My  dear  Frances,  come  near  to  me, 
and  hear  what  I  have  to  say." 

Frances  drew  near  with  some  timidity 
Conscious  of  her  faults,  and  expecting  the 
word  of  truth  to  be  directed  to  her  heart,  she 
had  at  that  moment  rather  have  escaped  from 
it.  But  her  mamma,  taking  her  hands  into 
hers,  and  sitting  down  on  a  garden  stool  that 
was  nigh,  she  felt  that  the  words  would  be 
words  of  love,  aif.d  her  heart  beginning  to 
soften,  the  tears  were  ready  to  flow,  for  she 
knew  that  her  mamma  would  speak  to  her  of 
Jesus  and  of  his  blood,  which  was  shed  for 
sinners. 

4'Do  you  know  quite  well,  my  child,  that 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  81 

among  the  fruits  of  tne  Spirit  enumerated, 
Gal.  v.,  there  is  one  called  Temperance  ?" 

"Yes,  mamma,"  she  replied. 

"  Are  you  not  also  conscious,  my  dear  child, 
that  your  desire  of  indulging  your  appetite  ia 
quite  contrary  to  this  holy  fruit  ?" 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  Then  what  are  you  to  do  in  order  to  over- 
come the  one,  and  to  obtain  the  other  ?" 

"  I  must  ask  the  Lord  Jesus  to  give  me  the 
Holy  Spirit." 

"  Yes,  my  child,  to  him  must  you  come  for 
all  help,  and  he  will  not  send  you  empty  away. 
Here  is  a  subject  on  which  you  must  indeed 
open  your  mouth  wide,  in  earnest  prayer,  and 
wait  on  the  Lord  for  his  gracious  answer. 
'Ask,  and  ye  shall  receive,'  he  says,  and  after 
showing  how  an  earthly  father  will  act  towards 
his  child  that  asks  for  bread,  how  does  he  con- 
clude?" 

"  He  says,  '  How  much  more  will  your  heav- 
enly Father  give  the  Holy  Spirit  to  them  that 
AskHim!'" 

"  Will  you  then,  my  dear  Frances,  profit  by 


82  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

this  gracious  instruction,  and  will  you  ask  for 
the  Holy  Spirit?" 

"  Yes,  mamma,  I  will  try." 

"  Do  you  believe  the  Lord  will  give  you  the 
Holy  Spirit  when  you  ask?" 

"  He  says  He  will,  mamma." 

"  That  is  enough,  my  child  ;  what  the  Lord 
says  is  yea  and  amen.  It  is  written,  '  Hath  he 
said,  and  will  he  not  do  it?'  " 

"Yes,  mamma,  I  know  God  is  Truth,  He 
cannot  lie." 

"But  you  know  also,  my  dear  Frances, 
when  the  Holy  Spirit  is  given,  he  takes  up  his 
abode  in  the  heart,  and  he  acts  in  the  soul,  and 
will  not  dwell  there  without  producing  his 
holy  fruit ;  and  tell  me  now  what  is  the  fruit 
you  particularly  want  to  overcome  this  sinful  de- 
sire of  appetite  which  prevails  in  your  heart." 

"  Is  it  not  temperance,  mamma?" 

"  Yes,  and  if  He  comes  into  your  heart,  he 
will  give  it  you,  and  moreover  teach  you  tc 
repent  of  your  sins  ;  for  consider,  my  Frances, 
■in  is  an  offence  against  him,  and  needs  to  be 
repented  of.     Do  you  repent?" 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  83 

4<  I  am  very  sorry,  mamma." 

"  But  repentance  is  more  than  sorrow ;  it 
vill  make  yon  ashamed  before  God,  and  make 
/■qu  feel  yourself  vile  ;  and  it  will  also  make 
you  carefully  watchful  against  the  temptation ; 
3t  will  make  you  anxious  to  quit  the  sin,  and 
clear  your  soul  from  its  power;  it  will  make 
you  indignant  against  it,  and  urge  you  to  seek 
that  strength  from  the  Spirit,  which  will  resist 
the  sin,  and  overcome  it.  When,  therefore, 
you  ask  for  the  Holy  Spirit,  be  willing  that 
the  Lord  should  fill  you.  .Be  ready  to  exercise 
the  mighty  gift  for  all  his  offices,  to  convict 
you  of  sin,  to  lead  you  to  true  expectations,  and 
to  strengthen  you  to  overcome  your  sin,  giv- 
ing you  that  grace  which  is  specially  opposed 
to  the  leading  sin  of  your  heart." 

"I  wish  I  had  this  gift ;  for  my  sin  makes 
-me  very  unhappy:  I  know  it  is  wrong." 
•  "Do  not  stop  in  wishes,  dear  child,  go  and 
pray ;  '  Ash,  and  ye  shall  receive.'  '  Open 
your  mouth  wide'  in  the  full  iterance  of  all 
your  distress,  and  of  all  you  desire  ;  pray  for 
what  you  wan\  name  it;  pra"  for  repentance. 


84  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

and  for  temperance.  Pray  that  the  lus:  of  y cur 
appetite  may  be  crucified,  and  pray  that  the 
blood  of  Jesus,  the  Lamb  of  God  who  taketh 
away  sin,  may  be  sprinkled  upon  your  guilty 
soul,  and  cleanse  it  from  all  sin.  He  giveth 
liberally,  and  upbraideth  not.  He  is  angry 
only  when  we  neglect  his  promises  and  his  gifts. 

"  It  is  not  long  since,  dear  Mary,  that  you 
and  I  conversed  on  this  text,  'My  people 
would  not  hearken  to  my  voice,  Israel  would 
none  of  me :  so  /  gave  them  up  to  their  own 
heart's  lusts,1  Psa  lxxxi.  A  dreadful  judg- 
ment !  what  would  become  of  you,  dear 
Frances,  if  you  were  given  up  to  the  dominion 
of  your  appetite?" 

"But,  my  dear  mamma,"  Mary  said,  "do 
you  not  remember  the  end  of  that  psalm, 
what  a  sweet  verse  there  is  ?" 

"Kepeat  it,  dear  girl,  and  let  little  Frances 
hear  it  1" 

"  '  Had  they  hearkened  and  obeyed,  then 
should  he  have  ieu  them  with  the  finest  of  the 
wheat,  and  with  honey  out  of  the  rock  should 
I  have  satisfied  them.'  " 


CONVENIENT  FOOD.  85 

"  O  my  children,  said  their  mamina,  "  here 
is  spiritual  food  for  the  spiritual  appetite  ! 
You  know  who  is  the  Bread  of  Life,  and  who 
is  the  Eock  of  our  salvation.  Turn  unto  him 
your  whole  heart,  and  though  you  feel  the 
burden  of  the  body  of  this  death,  you  shall 
soon  be  able  to  thank  God,  who,  through  Jesu? 
Christ  our  Lord,  will  deliver  you." 


Poor  Esau  repented  too  late, 

That  once  he  his  birth-right  despis'd,  ^, 
And  sold  for  a  morsel  of  meat, 

What  could  not  too  highly  be  priz'd . 
How  great  was  his  anguish  when  told, 

The  blessing  he  sought  to  obtain 
Was  gone  with  the  birth-right  he  sold, 

And  none  could  recall  it  again  ! 

He  stands  as  a  warning  to  all, 

Wherever  the  gospel  shall  come ; 
0  hasten  and  yield  to  the  call, 

While  yet  for  repentance  there 's  room! 
Your  season  will  quickly  be  past ; 

Then  hear  and  obey  it  to-day, 
Lest  when  you  seek  mercy  at  last, 

The  Saviour  should  frown  you  away. 
8 


8fi  CONVENIENT  FOOD. 

What  is  it  the  world  can  propose? 

A  morsel  of  meat  at  the  best ! 
For  this  are  you  willing  to  lose 

A  share  in  the  joys  of  the  blest? 
Its  pleasures  will  speedily  end, 

Its  favor  and  praise  are  but  breath ; 
And  what  can  its  profits  befriend 

Your  soul  in  the  moments  of  death  ? 

If  Jesus,  for  these,  you  despise, 
And  sin  to  the  Saviour  prefer, 

In  vain  your  entreaties  and  cries, 

When  summon'd  to  stand  at  his  bar< 

How  will  you  his  presence  abide  ? 

What  anguish  will  torture  your  heart  J 

The  saints  all  enthron'd  by  his  side, 
And  you  be  compelled  to  depart. 

Too  often,  dear  Saviour,  have  I 

Preferr'd  some  poor  trifle  to  thee ; 
How  is  it  thou  dost  not  deny 

The  blessing  and  birth-right  to  me  ? 
No  better  than  Esau  I  am, 

Though  pardon  and  heaven  be  mine ; 
To  me  belongs  nothing  but  shame, 

The  praise  and  the  glory  be  thine. 


I. 

Ift*  little  fabiirr. 

"Ev^r  *  r  lild  is  known  "by  his  doings,  whether  his  work 
be  pure,  and  whether  it  be  right." — Proverbs,  ix.  11. 

Elappy  the  child  who  is  active,  intelligent 
and  obliging,  and  who  takes  pleasure  in  serving 
those  that  are  about  him !  Happy  above  all 
is  the  child,  who,  fearing  and  loving  the  Lord, 
shows  himself  thus  zealous  and  obliging,  from 
a  feeling  of  piet}r,  and  a  desire  to  please  God. 

Such  was  Francis,  and  this  we  shall  soon  see, 
from  the  following  narrative: 

Francis,  who  was  about  eight  years  old,  waa 
spending  the  month  of  June  with  his  Grand- 
papa in  the  country. 

His  Grandpapa  lived  in  a  pretty  house, 
roofed  with  slates,  and  surrounded  with  a 
verandah,  in  which  were  seats,  and  between 
each  seat,  some  flower-pots,     Jessamine  and 


88  THE  LITTLE  PAVIOR. 

roses  entwined  themselves  around  the  veran- 
dah, and  adorned  it  with  elegant  festoons  of 
flowers. 

Behind  the  house  was  a  yard,  where  chick- 
ens, turkeys,  and  guinea-fowls,  were  kept;  and 
in  the  front,  looking  towards  the  west,  was 
laid  out  a  fine  garden,  well  provided  with  ever- 
greens, such  as  holly,  yew,  and  pine-trees, 
and  amongst  these,  also,  many  birch  and  ash- 
trees  flourished. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  garden,  which  sloped 
a  little,  flowed  a  pure,  but  shallow  stream, 
which  was  crossed  by  means  of  a  wooden 
bridge,  surrounded  with  elders  and  large 
hazels. 

This  was  a  delightful  dwelling-place,  but 
those  who  inhabited  it,  were  still  more  delight- 
ful than  the  beautiful  garden  or  the  smiling 
groves.  For  it  was  the  beauty  of  piety  which 
was  found  in  them,  united  with  that  gentle- 
ness and  amiability  of  character,  that  humble 
spirit  of  cordiality,  which  our  Saviour  enjoins 
upon  ali  his  true  disciples. 

These  inhabitants,  so  good  and  so  amiable, 


THE   LITTLE   PAVIOR.  89 

were  the  Grandpapa  and  Grandmamma  of 
Francis,  and  their  domestics,  who,  with  them 
seived  the  Lord,  and  lived  in  that  peace, 
which  His  Spirit  gives  to  such  as  delight  in 
His  Word. 

This  dear  Grandpapa  then,  since  he  was 
pious,  was  charitable,  and  took  particular 
pleasure  in  visiting  his  aged  neighbors,  es- 
pecially the  poor  peasants,  to  whom  he  al- 
ways carried  comfort  and  encouragement  from 
that  gracious  God,  with  whom  he  himself  daily 
endeavored  more  and  more  to  live.  He  used 
generally  to  pay  these  charitable  visits  in  the 
middle  of  the  day ;  after  having  read  the  Holy 
Bible  for  the  second  time,  in  a  retired  summer- 
house  in  the  garden,  near  which  a  little  gate 
opened  upon  a  footpath,  which,  passing  through 
the  orchard,  led  to  the  village. 

Francis,  who  was  already  acquainted  with 
his  Grandpapa's  habits,  never  came  to  disturb 
him  while  he  was  in  the  summer-house,  and 
whenever  he  saw  his  Grandpapa  going  out 
of  the  little  gate ;  he  took  good  care  not  to 
follow  him. 

a* 


90  THE   LITTLE   PAVIOR. 

But  in  about  an  hour  or  two,  he  would  go  to 
meet  him,  sometimes  towards  the  road,  at 
others,  as  far  as  the  bridge  over  the  stream; 
— his  Grandmamma  was  never  uneasy,  because 
she  knew  that  Francis  was  a  prudent  boy,  and 
tli at  God  watched  over  him,  as  one  of  the 
lambs  of  the  good  shepherd. 

Grandpapa  then,  had  just  finished  reading; 
he  had  put  on  his  hat  and  taken  his  cane,  and 
had  gone  out  through  the  gate. 

Francis,  who  was  sitting  before  the  house, 
under  the  pretty  green  verandah,  saw  him 
pass  behind  the  garden  hedge,  and  was  al- 
ready thinking  of  going  to  meet  him  at  the 
end  of  an  hour,  when  to  his  great  surprise 
he  saw  his  Grandpapa  pass  again  behind  the 
hedge,  and  then  enter  the  garden  through  the 
little  gate,  walking  apparently  with  much 
difficulty. 

"What  is  the  matter,  dear  Grandpapa Vs 
cried  Francis,  springing  towards  the  garden. — 
"Oh!  how  you  are  covered  with  mud!  It 
must  be  that  rude  Driver  who  wanted  to  fawn 
upon  you.     He  has  always  such  dirty  paws." 


THE   LITTLE   PAVTOR.  91 

"You  must  not  scold  Driver,  but  me,"  mildly 
replied  his  Grandpapa,  "for  I  incautiously, 
and  most  imprudently,  walked  upon  that  part 
of  the  path  which  has  been  inundated  by  the 
water  from  the  fountain." 

1  Grandpapa,  did  you  fall?"  asked  Francis, 
quite  alarmed. 

"  Yes  my  boy,  your  Grandfather  fell  like  a 
heedless  man.  .  .  But  thanks  to  our  gra- 
cious God,  who  ever  takes  care  of  us !  it  was 
nothing;  I  was  only  a  little  frightened.  You 
see,  Francis,  you  must  not  forget  that  we  only 
stand,  because  God  supports  us." 

So  saying,  his  Grandfather  entered  the 
house,  and  with  the  same  serenity  related  his 
accident  to  his  wife,  who  bestowed  every  at- 
tention upon  him. 

Whilst  his  Grandfather  was  resting  himself, 
and  Francis  had  ascertained  that  he  had  not 
suffered  much,  he  hastened  to  look  at  the  spot 
where  his  kind  Grandpapa  had  slipped  and 
fallen.  It  was  a  little  bit  of  the  path,  perhaps 
about  three  paces  long,  covered  with  the 
water  which   was  issuing  from  the  fountain, 


92  THE  LITTLE  PAVIuR. 

and  which  being  of  clay,  had  become  very 
slippery. 

The  trench  round  the  fountain  had  been 
already  deepened  more  than  once,  in  order  to 
turn  its  course  from  that  part  of  the  orchard, 
but  as  the  ground  was  rather  low,  the  water 
always  returned. 

Francis  examined  all  this,  and  tried  tc 
find  out  what  could  be  done  to  remedy  the 
evil,  in  a  more  durable  manner. 

"  I  know!'1  he  cried  at  last.  "  I  must  make  a 
pavement  here,  a  little  higher  than  the  path 
is  at  present I" 

"Come!  cheer  up!  'Where  there's  a  will,' 
says  Grandpapa,  'with  God's  help  there's  a 
way.'  To  work,  to  work !  *  For  he  who  does 
nothing  makes  little  progress,'  says,  also,  my 
dear  Grandpapa." 

It  may  be  here  well  asked,  how  a  little 
child,  eight  years  of  age,  could  even  conceive 
such  a  project,  and  much  more  how  he  could 
have  had  sufficient  strengt!    to  accomplish  it. 

But  Francis  was  not  a  t  mghtless  or  inat- 
tentive child ;  on  the  conti    y  he  observed  on 


THE  LITTLE   PAVIOB.  93 

his  way  to,  and  from  School,  and  when  he 
walked  oat  with  his  Papa,  everything  that 
workmen  did. 

It  was  thus  that  he  had  often  noticed  how 
the  Paviors  first  laid  down  the  stones,  and 
then  pressed  them  together,  and  as  we  shall 
soon  see,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  what  he 
was  going  to  attempt. 

"First  and  foremost,"  said  he,  "the  tools!" 
and  immediately  he  ran  off  to  look  for  a  little 
wheel-barrow  which  his  Grandpapa  had  made 
for  him ;  with  the  spade,  the  trowel,  and  the 
iron  rake,  which  were  at  his  disposal. 

When  the  tools  were  collected,  Francis, 
having  taken  off  his  jacket,  traced  out  the 
portion  to  be  paved. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  must  take  away  two  or 
three  inches  of  earth,  that  the  stones  may 
fit  in." 

He  then  took  away  the  earth,  and  piled  it 
up  on  the  upper  side  of  the  path,  in  order  to 
compel  the  water  to  pass  by  the  drain. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "I  must  find  some  sand; 
where  is  there  anj  ?  Oh !  behind  the  hen-house  j 


94  THE   LITTLE    PAVIOR. 

the  masons,  who  plastered  the  walls  of  the  yard 
over  again,  have  left  a  large  heap  of  it  there' 
• — and  then  he  quickly  ran  with  his  wheel  • 
barrow,  once,  twice,  and  even  three  times\ 
and  soon  had  as  much  as  was  necessary.  He 
spread  it  out,  and  arranged  it,  and  then  pro- 
nounced the  great  word  of  all  his  work, 
"Stones!  No  stones,  no  pavement!  I  must 
have  at  least  fifty  of  them !"  He  ran  about, 
searched  and  gathered,  near  the  fountain, 
round  the  house,  and  along  the  wall  of  the 
yard,  and  soon  brought  back  four  wheel- 
barrows full  of  nice  stones,  well  shaped,  and 
not  too  large. 

But  there  were  not  enough,  for  he  was 
obliged  to  put  five  or  six  abreast.  Where  are 
there  any  more  to  be  found  ? 

"In  the  brook,"  cried  he!  "It  is  rather  far 
off,  but  I  shall  soon  be  there!"  And  indeed 
in  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  he  had  col- 
lected all  the  proper  materials. 

Then  should  he  have  been  seen  at  work! 
The  trowel  in  his  right  hand,  a  stone  in  his 
left;  the  sand  which  he  placed  between  each, 


THE   LITTLE   PAVIOR.  95 

gtone,  and  the  blows  which  forced  it  down, 
these  things  succeeded  each  other  rapidly,  and 
were  often  repeated ;  till  at  length,  at  the  end 
of  the  third  hour,  the  slippery  bit  of  foot-path 
was  no  longer  in  existence,  but  in  its  stead 
was  to  be  seen  a  pavement  slightly  raised, 
which  could  never  be  wetted  by  the  overflow- 
ing of  the  fountain. 

u  That  will  not  do  well,"  said  Francis,  when 
he  had  finished,  and  was  walking  over  the 
pavement;  "it  is  uneven,  Grandpapa  will 
hurt  his  feet  upon  it."  And  so  saying,  he  ran 
to  the  woodhouse  in  the  yard,  and  returned, 
bending  under  the  weight  of  the  mallet,  with 
which  Thomas  used  to  strike  the  axe  and 
wedges,  when  he  split  the  large  pieces  of  oak. 

"  Here  is  my  rammer,"  said  Francis,  laugh- 
ng,  as  he  thought  of  those  used  by  the  paviors ; 
and  holding  the  mallet  perpendicularly,  he 
struck  with  the  butt-end,  first  one  stone, 
and  then  another,  until  at  length  the  pave- 
ment was  completed  I  It  was  solid,  even  and 
clean,  and  Francis,  repeating  in  truth,  "  Where 
there's  a  will,  with  God's  help,  there's  a  way," 


98  .THE  LITTLE  PAVIOR. 

gave  thanks  in  his  heart  to  that  good  heavenly 
Father,  who  gave  him  both  the  idea  and  the 
will  to  do  this  act  of  filial  love,  and  enabled 
him  to  accomplish  it. 

Some  sand  and  a  few  stones  remained; 
Francis  took  them  up  and  carried  them  baok 
near  to  the  house.  Then  he  cleared  away  the 
rubbish,  and  having  put  on  his  coat  again,  re- 
turned joyfully  to  replace  his  tools  in  the 
green-house. 

All  this  was  done  after  dinner,  between 
the  hours  of  three  and  six.  The  evening 
passed  quietly  away.  Grandpapa  had  not  re- 
ceived any  bruises,  and  he  could  not  suffi- 
ciently thank  the  Good  shepherd,  the  Lord 
Jesus,  who  had,  as  it  were,  "  carried  him  in 
his  arms,"  and  "  kept  all  his  bones." 

Grandmamma  joined  in  his  praises  and 
thanksgivings,  and  these  two  faithful  servants 
blessed  the  Lord  together,  whose  mercies  are 
over  all  his  works. 

"  To-morrow,  please  God,"  said  Grandpapa  to 
Francis,  "  I  shall  go  and  see  old  George.  He 
must  have  expected  me  to  day !     But  be  as 


THE  LITHE   P^VIOK.  b, 

eured,  my  dear  Francis,  that  your  Grandpapa 
-will  walk  no  more  like  a  giddy  child ;  and  if 
the  path  is  still  slippery,  I  shall  place  my 
foot  prudently  upon  it." 

Francis  said  he  hoped  the  path  would  be 
better;  and  however  that  might  be,  that  the 
Lord  would  preserve  him  thenceforth  from 
slipping,  and  above  all,  from  falling. 

Grandpapa  made  Francis  read  the  Bible  as 
usual,  to  the  whole  household.  He  spoke 
piously  of  God's  paternal  care  for  our  bodies 
as  well  as  for  our  souls,  and  in  his  prayer  he 
gave  abundant  thanks  to  the  Saviour  who 
had  so  graciously  preserved  him. 

The  morrow  came.  Grandpapa  had  quite 
recovered  his  accident  of  the  preceding  day, 
and  after  reading  in  the  summer-house,  he 
got  up  to  go  and  see  old  George. 

Francis,  who  was  observing  him  from  be- 
neath the  verandah,  no  sooner  saw  him  come 
near  the  little  gate,  than  he  ran  round  the 
iiouse  to  hide  himself  behind  a  hazel  bush,  a 
short  distance  from  the  pavement,  in  order  to 
see  what  his  Grandpapa  would  do. 


98  THE   LITTLE   PAVIOR. 

Grandpapa  walked  on  towards  the  orchard, 
and  as  soon  as  he  set  his  foot  on  the  path,  he 
prepared  to  proceed  very  carefully.  He  took 
three  01  four  steps,  and  then  suddenly  stopped, 
and  raising  his  hands,  exclaimed,  a  "pavement! 
a  pavement  here  already !  How  does  this  hap- 
pen ?  Who  could  have  done  this?  It  must 
be  my  faithful  Thomas  I" — he  continued — "I 
must  thank  him  for  it;"  and  he  called  out 
loudly,  "Thomas!  Thomas!"  Thomas,  who 
was  in  the  cow-house,  heard  his  voice,  and 
ran  to  him  in  alarm. 

"Have  you  tumbled  again,  sir,"  he  asked 
anxiously? 

" On  the  contrary,"  said  Grandpapa,  "thanks 
to  you,  Thomas,  for  having  made  this  good 
substantial  pavement  so  quickly  and  so  well; 
it  is  really  excellent,"  said  he,  stamping  upon  it 
with  his  foot,  and  walking  over  it  in  every  direc- 
tion. "  It  is  solid,  and  even,  and  slopes  on  either 
*ide  !  I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,  Thomas.'- 

*'  Alas!  sir,"  said  the  man,  "it  is  not  I  who 
did  it — how  vexed  I  am  that  I  did  not  think 
of  it     what  stupidity !"     ,     .     . 


TFE   LITTLE    PAVIOK.  Q% 

"  Who  is  it  then  ?"  asked  Grandpapa,  "  for 
this  has  been  done  since  yesterday,  and  surely 
these  stones  are  not  mushrooms  I  Who  could 
have  thought  of  this  ?" 

u  I  think  I  know  who  it  is,  sir,"  answered 
Thomas,  "for  yesterday  in  the  afternoon  I 
saw  master  Francis  going  down  to  the  brook 
with  his  wheelbarrow.  I  could  not  think 
what  it  was  for,  but  now  I  understand." 

"  Francis !  did  you  say,"  exclaimed  Grand 
papa;  "how  could  that  child  have  done  ii 
even  if  he  had  wished?  Are  these  stones 
only  nuts,  that  that  dear  boy's  little  hands 
could  have  been  able  to  knock  them  into  the 
ground  ?"  • 

"Do  you  wish,  sir,  that  I  should  look  for 
him  and  bring  him  here  ?"  asked  Thomas. 

Francis  could  no  longer  remain  concealed. 
He  ran  from  behind  the  bush,  and  threw  him- 
self into  his  Grandpapa's  arms;  saying,  "Dear 
Grandpapa,  how  happy  I  am  to  have  been 
able  to  succeed." 

"It  is  you  then,  indeed,  my  son  I"  cried 
Grandpapa,  as  he  she<i  tears  of  joy.     "CK>cl 


100  THE   LITTLE   PAVIOR. 

bless  your  filial  piety  towards  me !  May  He 
retirn  you  two-fold  all  tbe  good  you  have 
done  my  heart.     But  how  did  you  manage?" 

"You  ha\e  often  told  me,  dear  Grandpapa, 
that  'Where  there's  a  will,  with  the  help  of 
God,  there's  a  way,'  and  I  prayed  to  God,  and 
was  able  to  do  it." 

"Well  then,  dear  Francs,"  said  Grandpapa, 
solemnly,  "  I  promise  you,  that  every  day  of 
my  life,  as  long  as  I  shall  walk  here  below, 
when  I  pass  over  this  pavement,  which  your 
affection  has  made  for  me,  I  will  say  to  Gud 
*0  Lord,  prevent  Francis  from  falling  in  his 
way !  May  thy  goodness  pave  for  him  the 
path  of  life,  whenever  it  becomes  slippery.' '' 

Francis  understood,  and  respectfully  re- 
ceived this  blessing;  and  whilst  his  Grand 
father  paid  his  visit,  the  little  pavior  went 
and  told  his  Grandmamma,  what  he  had  been 
able  to  do,  and  how  God  had  already  blessed 
him  for  ifc. 


11. 

®fci  Silbtt  Jsiult. 

"  Then  eaid  Josus  unto  him.  ■  (lo  and  do  t  icu  lika- 
■wise." — Luo,  2.  37. 

Mary. — (After  having  searched  about  the 
dining-room,)  "  Who  has  seen  my  silver  knife  ? 
William,  John,  Lucy,  you  who  are  amusing 
yourselves  in  the  garden,  have  you  seen  my 
silver  knife?" 

William. — (Going  up  to  the  window,  and  ii 
a  sententious  tone  of  voice,)  "  c  Disorder/  says 
an  ancient  writer,  'occasions  sorrow,  and  neg- 
ligence, blame.' " 

Mary. — "  Admirable !  But  that  does  not 
apply  to  me,  for  it  is  scarcely  an  hour  since  I 
laid  my  knife  on  this  very  table,  which  ccr 
tamly  belongs  to  us." 

Lucy,—  -"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  it,  Mary  !" 

•Tfiry— "  Yes,  indeed,  there  is  no  doubt  of 


102  THE  SILVER  KNIFE. 

it,  for  Sophy  asked  me  to  give  her  a  pretty 
little  red  apple,  as  usual,  before  going  to 
school.  I  went  immediately  to  the  fruit-room 
for  it,  and  as  it  was  a  little  spoiled,  I  cleaned 
it  with  my  silver  knife,  which  I  laid  on  this 
table,  whilst  I  was  kissing  her.  I  am  there 
fore  quite  sure  of  it." 

John. — (Frowning,) — "  For  my  part,  I  con 
fess,  I  don't  like  all  these  strangers  who  come 
about  the  house.  For  instance,  that  little 
Jane,  who  sells  lilies  of  the  valley,  and  straw- 
berries, and  so  on — I  very  much  distrust  her 
sullen  look ;  and  who  knows,  if  perhaps  .  .  ?" 

Lucy — "Fie,  fie,  brother,  to  suspect  that 
poor  little  modest  gentle  child,  who  supports 
her  sick  mother  by  her  own  industry  1  Oh  I  it 
is  very  wrong,  John !" 

"What  is  the  matter?"  said  their  Father, 
who  had  heard  this  dispute  from  the  garden, 
where  he  was  reading  under  the  shade  of 
a  tree. 

Mary  related  her  story,  and  finished  by  say- 
in-  ,— "  Well,  if  it  be  God's  will,  So-be-itl  Mj 
beautiful  knife  is  lost !" 


* 


THE  SILVER  KNIFE.  103 

"Yes,  my  dear  girl,"  answered  her  father, 
"  What  God  wills,  is  always  best.  But  it  is 
His  will  that  I  should  watch  over  my  house- 
ho'd.  I  must  therefore  know  what  has  become 
of  your  knife.  Did  you  ask  Elizabeth  if  she 
had  taken  care  of  it,  when  she  cleaned  the 
room  ?  " 

Mary  ran  to  the  kitchen,  and  enquired  of 
Elizabeth. 

"  Your  silver  knife !  Miss,"  said  the  servant, 
coloring.  "  Have  you  lost  that  beautiful  knife, 
Which  was  given  you  on  your  birthday  ?" 

"I  .ask  you,  if  you  have  taken  care  of  it," 
answered  Mary.  "  I  laid  it  this  morning 
Upon  the  table  in  the  dining-room,  near  the 
window." 

Elizabeth. — (with  astonishment,) — Near  the 
window !  Oh ! — I  know  where  it  is,  now. 
About  half  an  hour  ago,  when  I  went  into  the 
dining-room,  to  .  .  .  put  ...  down  c  .  some 
plates,  I  saw  the  great  magpie,  which  build9 
its  nest  up  in  the  large  elm-tree,  at  the  end  of 
the  garden,  sitting  on  the  window-ledge.  It 
flew  away  as  soon  as  it  saw  me  ;  but  it  had 


104  THE   SILVER  KNIFE. 

something  white  and  shining  in  its  beak.  Oh! 
yes,  I  remember  now!  it  was  the  silver 
knife!" 

"  The  magpie,"  exclaimed  Mary,  "  with  my 
knife  in  its  beak  !" 

"Oh!  Miss,"  replied  Elizabeth,  "there  is 
no  thief  like  a  magpie.  When  I  was  at  home, 
one  of  their  nests  was  once  pulled  down,  and 
nine  pieces  of  silver  were  found  in  it,  and  a 
whole  necklace  of  pearls  !  Oh  !  magpies  are 
terrible  birds,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  your 
knife  is  in  their  nest." 

Mary  returned  to  her  father  in  the  garden, 
and  related  to  him  all  that  Elizabeth  had  said, 
Dut  added,  "  For  my  part,  I  don't  believe  a 
word  of  it  |" 

11  And  why  not?"  exclaimed  John,  sharply, 
"  Elizabeth  is  quite  right  !  Nothing  steals 
like  a  magpie.  Everybody  says  so.  Come ! 
let  us  to  work  !  A  ladder,  a  cord,  and  a  long 
stick!  Down  with  the  nest! — Papa,  will  you 
allow  me  to  climb  the  tree  !" 

Luq/.  —  ( Holding  John  by  the  arm.)  — 
"  Brother,  how  can  you  think  of  it  ?     The 


THE  SILVER  KNIFE  105 

elm  is  more  than  eighty  feet  high!  Papa,  I 
fceg  of  you,  not  to  allow  it." 

Father. — (Calmly.) — "  No  one  shall  get  up 
the  tree  and  risk  his  life,  for  a  thing  which 
certainlj  is  not  there." 

u  There  is  no  thief  like  a  magpie,"  repeated 
John,  looking  at  the  nest,  which  might  be 
seen  through  the  higher  branches  of  the  tree ; 
"  but  I  confess  it  would  not  be  easy  to  reacn 
it.  These  branches  are  very  long  and  very 
slender !" 

William,  who  had  said  nothing  as  yet,  but 
had  been  walking  backwards  and  forwards, 
with  his  head  down,  and  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  turned  suddenly  round  to  Mary,  and 
said,  "  I  have  been  thinking  we  can  soon 
know  if  your  knife  is  in  the  nest.  We  only 
want  a  polemoscope  for  that.  Hurrah  !  long 
five  optics !" 

"A  lemoscope!"  said  Lucy,  "What  is  that* 
Is  it  a  long  hook?" 

William. — (Smiling  rather  contemptuous^.; 
Poor  sister !     What  ignorance  1" 

Father  -  -"  William,  speak  kindly — tell  youi 


06  THE  SILVER   KNIFE. 

sister  what  this  instrument  is,  and  wnat  ycu 
want  to  do  with  it." 

William. — (Scientifically.) — "  In  war,  when 
a  besieged  garrison  wishes  to  know  all  the 
movements  of  the  enemy,  without  being  seen, 
they  erect  behind  the  walls,  or  the  ramparts,  a 
mirror,  placed  at  the  end  of  a  long  pole,  and 
inclining  towards  the  country.  You  under- 
stand, then,  that  everything  that  takes  place 
outside,  is  reflected  in  the  mirror,  and  can  be 
seen  from  within,  or  in  another  mirror  placed 
at  the  bottom  of  the  pole,  and  sloping  inwards. 
This,  Lucy,  is  what  is  called  a  polemoscope-  - 
that  is  to  say,  an  instrument  far  observations 
In  war." 

"  Thank  you,"  William,  said  Lucy,  "  but 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

William. — *"  The  thing  is  quite  plain.  I 
am  going  to  fasten  a  small  mirror  on  a  light 
pitchfork,  inclining  it  downwa*  ds.  This  pitch- 
fork I  shall  fasten  f>mly  to  pole ;  then  some 
one  will  climb,  dear  papa,  vithout  any  danger, 
as  far  as  the  strong  branches  reach  ;  from 
riience  he  can  draw  up  the  pole  and  its  mirror, 


THE  SILVER  KNIFE.  107 

with  a  long  string,  and  by  raising  the  mirror 
above  the  nest,  he  will  enable  us  to  see,  with 
the  aid  of  your  telescope,  all  that  the  nest 
contains.  This  is  my  plan,  and  I  think  it  is 
not  so  bad  I" 

Father. — (Smiling.) — "  Dear  William.  It  is 
a  great  pity,  however,  that  you  are  so  blind. 
There  are  two  things  you  have  not  consid 
ered.  One  is,  that  the  branches  which 
cover  the  nest,  are  very  thick  and  tufted. 
Therefore,  your  mirror,  even  if  it  reached 
their  summit,  would  only  reflect  the  leaves, 
and  consequently  neither  the  nest  nor  the 
knife  ;  and  the  other  thing  which  you  do  not 
observe,  is  this,  that  the  magpies,  by  an  admi- 
rable instinct,  which  God  has  given  them, 
build  their  nests,  not  like  a  basin,  as  you 
supposed,  but  in  the  form  of  a  ball ;  so  that 
the  nest  is  covered  with  a  vaulted  roof,  formed 
cf  sticks  closely  interwoven,  which  shelters 
the  bird  and  its  brood  from  bad  weather,  and 
above  all,  from  the  cruel  claw  of  the  kite  or 
hawk." 

"  I  am  rr.ucli  obliged  to  you,  dear  papa," 


108  THE  SILVER  KNIFE. 

said  William.  "What  a  pity  "  ae  added, 
with  a  sigh ;  "  for  my  plan  would  otherwise 
have  been  infallible." 

"Let  us  seek  a  better  one,"  said  their  father. 
"  Mary,  go  and  see  if  you  have  not  left  yout 
knife  in  the  fruit-room.  Perhaps  it  was  yes- 
terday, that  you  peeled  the  apple  for  Sophy." 

1  •  I  will  do  so,"  said  Mary,  and  she  went  into 
the  house  for  the  key  of  the  fruit-room. 

She  soon  returned,  exclaiming,  "The  key 
is  not  in  its  place,  and  I  put  it  there  this 
morning." 

"Miss  Mary  is  mistaken,"  said  Elizabeth, 
coming  out  of  the  kitchen;  "I  see  the  key  in 
the  door." 

"  Papa,"  said  .Mary,  "  I  recollect,  when  I 
put  the  key  in  the  cupboard,  this  very 
morning,  Sophy  looked  at  it,  and  said,  "It  is 
certainly  the  prettiest  key  on  the  bunch." 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  fruit-room,"  said  the 
father,  directing  his  steps  thither.  "  I  fear 
this  will  prove  a  sad  affair  " 

"  What  is  this,  too,"  cried  Mary,  examining 
the  shelves,  "  the  big  key  of  the  cellar  here 


THE   SILVER  KNIFE. 

Where  did  it  come  from  ?     And  this  key  cov- 
ered with  cheese,  from  one  end  to  the  other  I " 

"Let  us  go  to  the  cellar!"  said  the  father. 
M  I  believe  we  shall  find  out  more  there  than 
we  can  here." 

They  opened  the  door,  and  found  the  bril- 
liant silver  knife,  not  in  the  magpie's  nest,  but 
sticking  in  a  cheese,  from  which  a  large 
portion  appeared  to  have  been  detached. 

The  children  were  amazed,  and  their  Father 
much  grieved. 

"Here  is  your  knife,  Mary,"  said  John, 
who  first  saw  it.  "  Certainly,  there  is  no  need 
of  a  looking-glass  to  find  it." 

"  Yon  must  not  joke,  "my  children,"  said 
the  Father;  "this  is  a  very  sad  business.  I 
am  thankful  it  has  taken  place  in  the  absence 
of  your  dear  Mother,  and  I  forbid  you  writ- 
ing her  anything  about  it.  This  must  concern 
me,  and  me  alone." 

William. — (Indignantly.) — "It  amounts  to  a 
theft,  a  falsehood!" 

Lucy. — "Bat  who   has  done  it,  William? 
Did  not  Mary  leave  her  knife  here  ?" 
10 


119  THE  SILVER  KNIFE. 

William. — "  Who  saw  the  Magpie  carrying 
it  off,  in  his  beak?" 

Mary. — (To  Lucy.) — "Do  you  not  under- 
stand that  it  was  poor  Elizabeth,  who  came 
here  with  my  knife,  which  she  took  off  the 
table  where  I  left  it,  and  who,  after  having 
cut  a  piece  of  cheese  with  it,  went  to  the  fruit* 
room,  no  doubt  to  steal  some  apples  also." 

John. — (Angrily.) — "Papa,  Elizabeth  has 
acted  deceitfully— will  you  allow  her  to  re- 
main with  you?  One  of  the  Psalms,  the 
101st,  I  think,  says,  'He  that  worketh  deceit 
shall  not  dwell  within  my  house.' " 

The  Father, — (Gravely.)  "It  is  said  also  in 
Holy  Scriptures,  my  son,  that  'mercy  re- 
joiceth  against  judgment,'  and  perhaps,  John, 
if  any  of  us,  had  been  brought  up  like  poor 
Elizabeth,  we  might  have  done  even  worse 
than  this." 

"I  am  quite  vexed,"  said  Mary,  "Oh!  why 
did  I  not  take  more  care  of  that  wretched 
knife!" 

William, — "But,  Mary,  it  was  not  your 
knife  left  upon  the  table,  which  tempted  her 


THE  SILVEE  KMFE.  Ill 

to  take  two  keys  secretly  out  of  the  cupboard, 
and  which  made  them  the  instruments  of  this 
theft.  For  Papa,"  continued  he,  "  it  is  a  theft, 
and  a  shameful  one  too !  These  stolen  keys 
are  no  small  matter  1" 

The  Father.— (Calmly.)— "I  know  it  my 
children,  and  it  grieves  my  heart,  that  one  of 
my  servants,  who  daily  hears  the  word  of 
God  read  and  explained,  should  so  far  have 
forgotten  the  fear  of  the  Lord !  This  is  what 
saddens  me,  and  wounds  me  deeply." 

Lucy. — "Elizabeth  has  not  long  been  our 
cook,  and  probably  she  never  heard  the  word 
of  God  before  she  came  here.  Poor  girl !  she 
is  perhaps  very  unhappy  now, — and  I  am 
sure,  she  will  repent  and  turn  to  God." 

The  Father. — "  That  is  right,  my  dear  child, 
I  rejoice  tq  hear  you  plead  the  cause  of  the 
unhappy,  and  even  of  the  guilty,  for  as  I  said 
before,  'mercy  rejoiceth  against  judgment.'" 

"I  was  therefore  wrong,"  said  John,  "and 
I  confess  it ....  for  certainly  I  scarcely  pitied 

her I  did  wrong !   and  now  I  think  as 

Lucy  does." 


112  THE   SILVER  KNIFE. 

"And  1  also,"  said  William,  "' Clemency 
governs  courage,7  says  a  Grecian  historian, 
and" 

The  Father. — (Very  seriously.) — "But,  my 
dear  William,  what  have  the  pagans  of  old 
and  their  morals  to  do  here?  My  son,  you 
know  it  is  the  word  of  God  which  rules  our 
conduct,  and  which  commands  us  to  suffer 
and  to  forgive." 

Lucy. — "Papa,  ^ill  you  allow  me  to  re- 
peat a  passage,  which  I  learnt  by  heart  last 
Sunday?" 

The  Father. — "Kepeat  it,  Lucy,  and  may 
God  bless  it  to  us  all ! " 

Lucy. — "  '  Execute  true  judgment,  and  show 
mercy  and  compassion  every  man  to  his 
brother.'  It  is  in  the  seventh  chapter  of 
Zechariah. " 

"I  too,  was  wrong  then,"  said  William, 
"  very  wrong !  for  it  is  the  wisdom  of  God 
alone,  that  enlightens  us." 

"  True,  my  son,"  said  his  Father,  "  may  God 
always  remind  you  of  this.  I  am  going  to 
epeak  to  Elizabeth/   he  added,  "as  for  you. 


THE   SILVER  KNIFE.  113 

my  children,  do  not  say  a  word  about  it ,  and 
above  all,  bless  the  Lord,  for  having  made 
known  to  you  his  grace  and  holy  law.  Pray 
to  him  together,  that  my  words  may  have 
their  due  effect  upon  the  mind  of  this  poor 
guilty  creature." 

The  Father  went  out  to  look  for  Elizabeth, 
and  the  children  repaired  to  William's  room, 
who,  having  knelt  down  with  them,  prayed  to 
the  Lord  to  take  pity  upon  her,  and  to  touch 
her  heart,  and  he  ended  the  prayer  in  the  fol- 
lowing words: — "In  thy  great  wisdom,  0 
Most  Gracious  God,  and  in  thine  infinite  com- 
passion, through  Jesus  Christ,  grant  unto 
each  of  us  true  repentance,  and  a  sincere 
change  of  heart,  and  may  this  affliction  be 
turned  to  the  glory  of  our  Saviour  Jesus." 

The  children  then  returned  to  their  several 
occupations,  and  not  one  of  them  ever  thought 
of  judging  Elizabeth,  or  even  speaking  harshly 
of  her. 

We  may  add,  that  the  exhortation  of  her 
charitable  master,  produced  sincere  penitence 
in  Elizabeth,  and  that  the  poor  girl  was  not 
10* 


114  THE  SILVER  KNIFE. 

sent  out  of  the  house;   for  "mercy  pleaded 
against  judgment." 

It  is  thus  that  God  deals  with  us !  Oh ! 
which  of  us  can  tel'  low  often  he  has  re- 
ceived pardon  from  the  Lord  I 


fjrt  fPflWn   firms, 

The   light  cometh  when  do  man  can  work."— -John,  Ix,  4 

"Ob!  my  sister!  my  sister!  What  a  lesson 
r^ay  we  learn  from  the  death  of  our  dear 
Arrelia !  She  was  but  sixteen  years  old  like 
myself,  and  only  two  years  older  than  you 
are,  but  how  much  had  she  done  for  the 
Lordi  I  saw  and  heard  her,  when  Jesus 
came  fcu  call  her  to  himself;  I  was  in  the 
churchyard  when  they  placed  her  body  in  the 
grave!  )h !  what  a  solemn  warning!  and 
now  I  frel  humbled  before  God,  and  I  pray 
Him  to  pour  into  my  heart  the  same  Spirit 
*which  He  bestowed  so  abundantly  upon  our 
friend,  as  well  as  that  lively  faith,  which  al- 
though .Amelia  'is  dead,  yet  speaketh/  as  it 
is  said  of  A  "bel,  and  which  sha.1  speak  through 
her  for  m  rjj  years  to  come ! 


116  THE  MODERN  DORCAS. 

I  wrote  to  you  less  than  a  fortnight  ago, 
that  Amelia  was  unwell ;  but  how  little  I 
then  thought  it  was  her  last  illness !  Oh ! 
how  uncertain  our  lifj  is,  dear  Esther,  and 
how  much  wiser  we  should  be  if  we  would 
only  believe  so  !   ' 

On  the  seventh  day  of  her  illness,  her 
mother  said  to  me,  "  Anna,  your  friend  is 
going  to  leave  us  ;  the  danger  of  "her  disorder 
increases  every  hour,  and  we  must  give  her 
up  to  God  1" 

I  wept  much  and  bitterly,  and  could  not  at 
first  believe  it ;  but  when  I  was  alone  with 
Amelia,  the  next  day,  she  said  to  me,  with 
that  calm  peacefulness  which  never  left  her, 
"  I  am  going  away  from  this  world,  Anna ; 
yes,  dear  Anna,  I  am  going  to  depart ;  I  feel 
it,  and  ....  I  am  preparing  myself  for  it !" 

I  tried  to  turn  away  her  thoughts  from  this 
subject ;  I  told  her  that  she  was  mistaken,  and 
that  God  would  certainly  restore  her ;  but  she 
stopped  me  with  firmness  of  manner,  and  said, 
11  Do  you  envy  my  happiness,  Anna  ?  Do 
you  wish  to  prevent  me  from  going  to  my 


THE   MODERN  DORCAS.  117 

Heavenly  home,  to  my  Saviour,  unto  his  light 
and  glory  ?"  The  entrance  of  her  father  and 
the  Doctor  prevented  my  reply,  and  I  left  the 
room  in  tears. 

"  You  must  not  cry,"  said  her  mother  to 
me.  m  We  must  pray,  and  above  all,  seek 
profit  from  the  occasion.  The  time  is  short  I 
Her  end  is  at  hand !  But,"  added  this  servant 
of  Christ,  "  thai  end  is  the  beginning  of  a  life 
which  shall  have  no  end  !" 

Three  more  days  passed  away.  On  the 
fourth,  we  had  some  faint  hope,  but  the  fol- 
lowing day,  all  had  vanished,  and  towards 
evening,  Amelia  declared,  that  the  Lord  was 
about  to  take  her. 

"  Yesr,my  dear  parente,  my  excellent  father 
and  mother,"  she  said,  with  a  beam  of  heav- 
enly joy  on  her  countenance,  "I  am  about  to 
leave  you  ;  but  I  do  not  leave  my  God,  .'or  I 
am  going  to  see  Him,  l  face  to  face.'  " 

"  My  dear  parents,"  she  continued,  affec- 
tionately, u  rejoice  at  my  departure ;  I  am 
going  to  Heaven  a  little  before  you,  it  is  true, 
but  it  is  only  before  you,  and  you  know  it; 


118  THE   MODERN    ZJORCAS. 

anl  the  Apostle  says,  that,  *  to  be  with  Christ 
is  far  better.'  " 

I  was  present,  Esther,  and  was  crying. 

"  Why  do  you  cry,  Anna  ?"  she  said,  "  Are 
30U  sorry  to  see  me  go  to  my  Father's  house ?" 

"  But,  Amelia,  /lose  you  ;  we  all  lose  you ; 
and  .  .  .  .  " 

"  I  do  not  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  Anna ; 
do  not  repeat  it,  and  do  not  think  of  it.  Our 
Saviour  says  that,  '  He  who  believes  on  Him 
shall  not  see  death  ;'  and  I  am  certain,  that 
my  soul  is  about  to  join  those  of  His  saints 
who  have  already  departed  this  life,  for  His 
grace  has  also  justified  me." 

"  Ah  !"  said  her  aunt,  who  had  not  left  her 
bedside  for  two  days,  "  you  have  always  done 
the  will  of  God,  dear  Amelia ;  you  are  there- 
fore sure  of  going  to  Him." 

"Dear  aunt,"  she  replied,  with  sorrow  on 
her  countenance,  "  I  assure  you  that  you 
grieve  me.  I  have  been  during  the  whole  of 
my  life,  but  a  poor  sinner,  and  have  by  no 
means  done  what  you  say  ;  but  ....  God 
Himself  has  pardoned  me,  and  it  is  only,  my 


THE  MODERN  DORCAS.  119 

dear  aunt,   because  the  blood   of  Jesus   has 
washed  away  my  sins,  that  I  shall  see  God." 

It  was  thus,  my  sister,  that  Amelia  spoke  at 
intervals  almost  the  whole  night.  Her  voic 
at  length  became  weaker  ;  and  towards  morn 
ing,  after  a  slight  drowsiness,  she  said  to  hei 
father,  "  Papa,  embrace  your  child  once  more." 
She  then  turned  to  her  mother,  and  said,  a  My 
dear  mamma,  embrace  me  also,  and  ....  may 
Jesus  comfort  you  all !" 

A  few  minutes  after,  our  darling  friend  fell 
gradually  asleep,  and  her  last  breath  died 
away  like  the  expiring  flame  of  a  candle.  She 
experienced  nothing  of  the  agony  of  death. 
Truly,  dear  Esther,  Amelia  knew  not  what 
death  was ! 

But  oh  !  how  I  have  myself  suffered !  and 
how  difficult  it  is  to  tear  one's  self  thus  forever 
here  below,  from  such  a  friend  as  she  was ! 

Nevertheless,  my  sister,  God  knows  we 
have  not  dared  to  murmur.  I  wish  you  had 
heard  the  prayer  that  Amelia's  father  offered 
up,  when  his  daughter  had  ceased  to  breathe ! 
Oh  I   it  was   the   spirit  of  consolation   itself 


120  THE   MODERN  DORCAS. 

which  spoke !  And  since  that  solemn  hour, 
what  piety,  what  strength  and  peace  of  mind, 
Amelia's  mother  his  displayed !  I  am  sure 
you  would  have  said,  that  the  Lord  was 
present,  and  that  He  was  telling  us  with  His  own 
voice:  "Amelia  triumphs — she  is  in  My  glory!" 

I  wished  to  be  in  the  churchyard  when  our 
friend,  or  rather,  when  her  body  of  dust,  was 
committed  to  the  grave.  There  were  many 
persons  present,  but  especially  poor  people ; 
some  old  men,  and  several  children,  came  to 
take  their  last  leave  of  her, 

A  grey-headed  and  feeble  old  man  was 
standing  near  the  grave,  leaning  with  his  two 
hands  on  a  staff,  and  with  his  head  depressed. 
He  wept  aloud,  when  the  clergyman  mentioned 
Amelia's  name,  as  he  prayed,  and  gave  thanks 
to  God.  He  then  stooped  down,  and  taking  a 
little  earth  in  his  hand,  said,  as  he  scattered  it 
over  the  coffin :  "  Sleep,  sweet  messenger  of 
consolation  !  Sleep,  until  He  whom  thy  lips 
first  proclaimed  to  me,  calls  thee  to  arise  1" 
And  with  this,  he  burst  into  tears,  as  they 
filled  the  grave. 


THE  MODEKN    DOECAS.  121 

When  all  was  finished,  and  the  funeral  pro- 
cession had  departed,  the  poor  people  who 
were  present  approached  the  grave,  sobbing, 
and  repeating,  "Sweet  messenger  of  goodness! 
Our  kind  friend,  our  true  mother !"  And  two 
or  three  of  the  children  placed  upon  her  grave 
nosegays  of  box  and  white  flowers. 

"  Alas,"  said  a  young  girl,  "  she  will  never 
hear  me  read  the  Bible  again,  nor  instruct  me 
how  to  live !" 

Another  cried  loudly,  "  Who  will  now  come 
to  visit  my  sick  mother,  and  read  the  Bible  to 
her,  and  bring  her  comfort  and  assistance." 

And  there  was  a  father,  a  poor  workman, 

with  two  little  boys,  who,  holding  his  children 

by  the  hand,  came  and  placed  himself  near 

the  spot  where  the  head  of  Amelia  was  laid, 

saying   to  them,    "  Here,   my  poor  children, 

under  this  sod,  rests  that  sweet  countenance 

which  used  to  smile  upon  you,  as  if  she  had 

been  your  mother  !     Her  lips  have  often  told 

you,  that  you  were  not  orphans,  and  that  God 

was  better  to  you  than  apparent.  .  .  .  Well, 

my  dear  children,  let  us  remember  what  she 
11 


122  THE  MODERN  DORCAS. 

used  to  say :  (  God  has  not  forgotten  us,  and 
He  will  sustain  us  P' 

I  was  with  my  brother,  who  himself  wept 
with  all  his  heart,  to  see  the  sincere  grief  of 
these  poor  people.  He  whispered  to  me,  "  I 
have  a  great  mind  to  speak  to  them,  and  ask 
them  what  Amelia  used  to  do  for  them."  I 
hud  the  same  wish  ;  so  we  approached  a  group 
which  surrounded  the  grave,  and  asked  them 
when  they  had  become  acquainted  with  Ame- 
lia. 

"  For  my  part,"  answered  the  old  man, 
already  spoken  of,  "this  messenger  of  peace 
visited  me  two  years  ago,  for  the  first  time.  I 
lived  near  a  family  to  whom  she  had  brought 
some  worsted  stockings,  for  winter  was  just 
setting  in,  and  so  my  neighbor  mentioned  me 
to  her,  as  a  poor  infirm  old  man.  She  desired 
to  see  me,  and  had  she  been  my  own  daughter, 
she  could  never  have  shown  me  more  respect 
and  kindness  !  She  procured  me  a  warm 
quilt  that  same  evening,  and  on  the  morrow, 
towards  the  middle  of  the  day,  she  came  with 
hej  excellent  mother  to  pay  me  a  long  visit. 


THE   MODEEN  DOECAS.  123 

"You  must  know/ sir,"  continued  the  old 
man,  to  my  brother,  "  I  was  then  very  igno- 
rant, or  rather  my  heart  was  hard  and  proud 
towards  God.  I  had  no  Bible,  and  did  not 
care  about  one.  Well,  this  dear  young  lady 
not  only  brought  me  one,  with  her  own  hands, 
but  came  to  read  and  explain  it  to  me,  with 
great  patience,  at  least  three  times  a  week, 
during  the  first  twelve  months. 

"  God  took  pity  on  me,"  added  the  old  man, 
in  a  low  voice,  "  and  last  year  I  began  better 
to  understand  the  full  pardon  which  is  in 
Christ  Jesus,  and  was  even  able  to  pray  with 
Miss  Amelia. 

"  She  used  sometimes  to  call  me,  '  My  old 
father,'  but  it  was  I  who  ought  to  have  called 
her  the  mother,  the  true  mother  of  my  soul. 

"  Just  one  month  ago,  she  came  to  me  for 
the  last  time  ;  she  gave  me  with  a  sweet  smile, 
these  worsted  gloves,  which  she  had  knitted 
herself,  and  then  recommended  me  with  much 
respect  and  kindness  to  thank  our  Lord,  who 
sent  them  me  !  This  was  the  last  of  that 
sweet  lady's  charities  to  me  !" .  . . 


124  THE   MODERN  DORCAS. 

Upon  this,  the  old  man  turned  away  weep- 
ing, and  as  he  walked  slowly  on,  he  frequently 
looked  back  upon  the  newly-covered  grave. 

"  The  same  thing  happened  to  me,"  said  the 
workman.  The  mother  of  these  two  little 
children  died  ten  months  ago ;  we  were  in 
want  of  everything,  then,  and  I  knew  not 
even  how  to  dress  these  children.  Believe 
me,  Miss,"  he  added,  addressing  me  with  feel- 
ing, "  when  the  mother  is  gone,  all  is  gone  I  .  . 
but  our  gracious  God  did  not  forsake  us,  for 
He  sent  us  his  angel ;  I  say  His  angel,  although 
she  is  at  present  much  more  than  an  angel  I  .  . 
Is  she  not  indeed  a  child  of  God  in  heaven  ?  .  . 
but,  in  short,  she  clothed  these  two  little  ones, 
and  I  am  sure  she  did  not  spare  herself  in 
working  for  them ;  the  clothes  they  now  wear 
were  made  chiefly  by  that  dear  young  lady's 
hands.  Then  she  used  to  come  and  visit  us; 
she  often  made  my  two  children  go  to  her 
house,  and  always  gave  them  good  advice.  She 
also  sent  them  to  school,  and  although  it  was 
certainly  her  mother  who  paid  for  them,  yet 
it  was  Miss  .Amelia  who  taught  them  to  read 


THE   MODERN  DORCAS. 

at  home,  and  who,  almost  every  Sunday,  made 
them  repeat  their  Bible  lessons. 

"  Ah,  Miss,"  he  continued,  "  all  that  that 
dear  young  lady  did  for  us,  for  our  souls  as 
well  as  for  our  bodies,  will  only  be  known  in 
heaven,  and  at  the  last  day.  For  my  part,' 
and  I  say  it  here  over  her  grave,  and  in  the 
presence  of  God,  I  am  certain,  that  when  the 
Lord  Jesus  shall  raise  us  all  up  again,  the 
works  of  Miss  Amelia  will  follow  her,  and  we 
shall  then  see  that  while  upon  earth  she  served 
God  with  all  her  heart. 

"  No,"  he  added,  as  he  wiped  away  the  tears 
from  his  children's  eyes,  "  I  would  not  wish 
her  to  return  from  the  glory  which  she  now 
enjoys,  at  the  same  time  I  cannot  conceal 
from  }^ou,  that  my  heart  mourns  for  her,  and 
lhat  I  know  we  have  lost  our  consolation,  our 
benefactress,  our  faithful  friend  !" 

"  Who  has  not  lost  one  ?"  exclaimed  a  poor 
woman,  at  whose  side  stood  the  little  girls 
who  had  planted  the  flowers;  "  I  know  very 
well  that  Miss  Amelia's  mother  will  take  her 
place,  she  is  so  good  and  kind  !  but  it  was  no 
11# 


126  THE  MODERN  DORCAS. 

little  joy  to  receive  a  visit  from  that  sweet 
and  amiable  young  lady,  so  good,  so  pious, 
and  so  full  of  joy.  Oh  I  what  should  I  have 
done  with  my  husband,  so  long  confined  to 
his  bed,  if  this  messenger  of  goodness  had  not 
procured  work  for  me,  and  recommended  me 
to  the  ladies  who  now  employ  me.  And  then 
again,  what  were  we,  until  Miss  Amelia  spoke 
to  us  ?  How  much  she  had  to  put  up  with 
when  I  refused  to  read  the  Holy  Scriptures ! 
and  yet  she  was  never  weary  of  me.  Oh  ! 
no  ;  she  came  day  after  day,  to  exhort  and  to 
teach  me,  and  blessed  be  God,  we  begin  now 
to  know  something  of  what  the  Saviour  has 
done  for  us. 

"  And,"  added  she,  drawing  the  little  girls 
towards  her,  "  I  shall  go  on  with  my  dear 
children,  reading  and  learning  that  word  of 
God,  which  was  Miss  Amelia's  greatest  joy. 

"  Come,  come,  my  friends,"  she  said,  in  a 
persuasive  tone,  "  we  must  also  die,  and  be 
put  each  in  his  turn,  under  this  ground  ;  but 
as  our  benefactress  is  not  dead  ....  (no,  she 
Is  not  dead,  for  the  Lord  has  said  it!) — so 


THE   MODEKN  DOKCAS.  127 

also  shall  not  we  die,  if  we  follow  in  hei 
steps." 

The  poor  woman  then  wished  us  good  day, 
and  moved  away  with  her  children.  We  all 
walked  on  together,  still  speaking  of  Amelia. 
My  brother  took  the  names  and  addresses  of 
many  of  the  poor  people,  with  whom  he  had 
just  been  conversing,  and  spoke  a  few  words 
to  them  of  comfort  and  encouragement. 

As  soon  as  we  were  alone,  he  showed  me 
the  list  of  names,  at  the  head  of  which  was 
that  of  the  old  man,  and  he  said,  "  Here  is  a 
blessed  inheritance  which  Amelia  has  left  us. 
She  has  done  as  Dorcas  did :  her  hands  have 
clothed  the  poor,  and  her  lips  have  spoken 
comfort  to  them.  Dear  Anna,  Amelia  was 
lot  older  than  we  are  ;  let  us  remember  this, 
'or  we  know  not  when  the  Lord  shall  call  us." 

How  wise  and  pious  this  dear  brother  is ! 
We  have  already  been  able  to  pay  together, 
two  of  Amelia's  visits.  Her  mother,  to  whom 
we  related  all  we  had  heard,  gave  us  further 
particulars  of  what  the  pious  and  indefatigable 
Amelia  used  to  do.     Ah    Esther,  her  religion 


128  THE  MODERN  DORCAS. 

was  not  mere  "  lip-service."  The  Spirit  of 
the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  assisted  her,  and  she 
might  have  said  with  truth,  I  show  "  my  faith 
by  my  works." 

Let  us  take  courage,  then,  my  dear  and 
kind  sister !  we  lament  our  loss  in  Amelia's 
death,  but  on  her  own  account  I  lament  her 
not.  I  can  only  contemplate  her  in  the  pres- 
ence of  God,  and  of  her  Saviour,  and  I  rejoice 
to  think  of  her  delight  when  she  entered  the 
region  of  heaven.  How  beautiful  it  must  be, 
Esther,  to  behold  the  glory  of  that  heaven  1 
to  hear  the  voices  of  saints  and  angels,  and  to 
know  that  God  loves  us,  and  will  make  us 
happy  forever. 

Think,  sister,  of  the  meaning  oi— forever  1 
Amelia's  father,  whom  I  saw  a  few  hours 
ago  with  her  excellent  and  pious  mother,  said 
to  me,  in  speaking  of  their  darling  child,  "For 
my  own  joy  and  comfort  I  should  have  wished 
to  have  kept  her  with  us ;  but,  my  dear  Anna, 
even  if  I  could  have  done  so,  what  would 
have  been  all  our  happiness,  compared  with 


THE  MODERN  DORCAS.  129 

that  which  she  now  possesses  in  the  presence 
of  her  God." 

But  do  not  suppose,  my  sister,  that  Ame- 
lia, with  all  her  piety,  was  less  prudent  with 
regard  to  the  things  of  this  world,  than  faithful 
regarding  those  of  heaven.  Her  mother  has 
shown  me  her  books,  and  her  different  arrange- 
ments, all  of  which  indicate  that  discretion 
spoken  of  in  Scripture,  carried  out  in  the  most 
minute  particulars. 

First,  as  respects  order  and  cleanliness  in 
everything  belonging  to  her :  it  would  be 
impossible  to  imagine  a  more  proper  arrange- 
ment than  the  one  she  made  of  each  article, 
both  in  her  wardrobe,  her  writing-table,  her 
work-box,  and  her  account-book. 

She  had  not  much  money  to  devote  to  her 
works  of  charity,  but  her  industry  made  up 
for  her  limited  means ;  for  instance,  in  opening 
the  Bible  which  she  generally  made  use  of,  I 
found  in  it,  four  or  five  pages  written  with  a 
great  deal  of  care;  and  her  journal  informed 
her  mother,  who  read  it,  of  the  reason  of  this 
circumstance.     It  runs  thus : 


130  THE  MODERN  DORCAS. 

"  As  old  Margaret  has  but  one  Bible,  some 
of  the  leaves  of  which  have  been  lostr  I  have 
given  her  mine,  which  is  quite  complete,  and 
have  taken  hers,  adding  to  it  some  sheets  of 
paper,  upon  which  I  have  written  the  passages 
which  were  deficient.  Thus  I  have  saved  the 
expense  of  a  new  Bible ;  and  it  is  the  same 
thing  to  me." 

Amelia's  diary  is  very  remarkable ;  her 
mother  has  allowed  me  to  read  many  portions 
of  it,  and  to  copy  out  what  relates  to  her  usual 
manner  of  employing  each  day.  I  send  it  to 
you,  dear  Esther,  and  you  will  find,  as  I  have 
done,  that  the  Spirit  of  God  always  teaches 
those  who  trust  in  Him,  how  precious  time  is 
here  below.  The  following  is  what  our  dear 
friend  wrote  upon  this  subject. 

"January  1st,  1844. — Nearly  eighteen  cen- 
turies and  a  half  have  passed  away,  since 
our  Saviour  took  upon  himself  the  form  of 
human  flesh  for  our  salvation.  Those  years 
seemed  long  as  they  succeeded  each  other,  but 
now  that  they  are  gone,  they  appear  as 
nothing. 


THE  MODERN  DORCAS.  131 

"Families,  and  nations,  and  the  mighty 
generations  of  mankind,  which,  in  times  gone 
by,  peopled  the  earth,  have  all  passed  away. 
Nothing  remains  of  them  here  below ! 

"But  such  is  not  the  case  in  heaven, — I 
should  rather  say, — in  eternity.  There,  all 
these  nations  still  exist,  no  man  can  be  absent, 
out  must  appear  before  the  Sovereign  Judge, 
to  answer  for  the  use  which  he  has  made  of 
his  time. 

"  How  short  that  time  is !  Where  are  the 
years  that  David  lived,  and  where  are  those 
which  Methusaleh  passed  in  this  world  ?  their 
whole  duration  seems,  at  this  distance,  in  the 
words  of  St.  James,  'Even  as  a  vapor  that 
appeareth  for  a  little  time,  and  then  vanisheth 
away.' 

"  It  will  therefore  be  the  same  with  me.  I 
know  not  how  long  I  shall  live  here  below, 
perhaps  I  shall  see  but  a  portion  of  this  year, 
and  shall  enter  into  glory  before  it  is  con- 
cluded ;  or  perhaps  I  shall  yet  see  many  more 
years.  This  th3  Lord  knows,  and  I  ought  not 
to  consider  that  such  knowledge  would  be  of 


132  THE  MODERN  DORCAS. 

any  importance  to  me,  since  that  which  con- 
stitutes my  life,  is  not  its  length  or  duration, 
but  the  use  which  is  made  of  it. 

44  It  is  to  Tesus,  then,  that  all  my  life  must 
be  devoted,  without  him  I  can  do  nothing. 
'My  life  is  hid  with  Christ  in  God.'  He  has 
'bought  me  with  a  price,'  I  ought,  therefore, 
4  to  glorify  God  in  my  body,  and  in  my  spirit, 
which  are  God's/ 

"  Truly  to  live  is  to  know,  that  my  thoughts 
and  actions  are  all  directed  to  the  glory  of 
Jesus,  whether  upon  earth  by  faith  and  hope, 
or  in  heaven  by  the  sight  and  by  the  glory 
of  God. 

"  But  here  below,  I  have  only  time  at  my 
disposal;  that  is  to  say,  days  composed  of 
hours;  or  rather,  I  have  in  reality  but  a  single 
day  to  make  use  of.  Yesterday  is  no  longer 
mine,  and  to-morrow,  where  is  it?  I  have  it 
not  yet,  and  perhaps  shall  never  see  it. 

"Lo  my  earthly  life  is  'to-day.'  What 
must  I  do  then  with  'to-day,'  that  God  may 
be  honored  and  glorified  in  it  ?  for  after  all,  if 
I  have  the  happiness  of  counting  the  year 


THE  MODERN   DORCAS.  133 

1844,  as  dating  from  a  christian  era,  and  not 
from  that  of  a  false  prophet  with  the  Mahom* 
edans,  nor  yet  of  a  false  God,  with  the  poor 
Indians,  it  must  be  to  Jesus  Christ,  from 
whose  birth  I  count  my  years,  that  thoso 
years  should  be  dedicated. 

"  Here  I  am,  therefore,  in  the  presence  of  my 
Saviour,  of  whom  I  implore  the  Spirit  of  wis- 
dom  and  prudence  to  guide  me  in  the  employ- 
ment of  this  my  day,  since  in  reality  I  have 
but  one,  and  that  is,  '  To-day.' 

"  But  I  cannot  do  better  than  walk  in  the 
footsteps  of  my  Kedeemer,  and  in  his  conduct 
and  conversation  whilst  on  earth,  I  observe 
these  three  things  :  Temperance,  piety,  and 
charity,  to  all  of  which  he  wholly  devoted  him- 
self, and  has  thus  left  me  an  example  to  follow. 

"  I  will  therefore  imitate  him  first  in  his 
temperance.  He  rose  early  in  the  morning — 
he  eat  frugally — he  worked  diligently — he 
wearied  himself  in  well-doing:  in  a  word,  he 
exerted  the  whole  strength  of  his  mind  and 
body  in  the  cause  of  truth,  but  never  in  the 
cause  of  evil. 

12 


134  THE  MODERN  DORCAS. 

" These,  therefore,  must  be  settled  rules, 
moderate  sleep,  moderate  repasts,  moderate 
care  and  attention  to  the  body ;  active  employ- 
ment, always  to  a  useful  purpose,  profitable  to 
my  neighbor,  and  never  interfering  with  my 
duties  at  home. 

"  In  the  next  place,  I  must  imitate  Jesus  in 
His  piety.  His  Father's  will  was  as  His  daily 
food.  What  a  thought !  To  live  wholly  to 
God,  and  as  He  himself  teaches  us  in  His 
Holy  Word.  To  do  this,  I  must  know  His 
Word  ;  I  must  study  it,  meditate  upon  it,  and 
learn  it  by  heart.  Besides  reading,  I  must 
pray,  for  prayer  is  the  life  both  of  my  heart 
and  soul  with  God.  What  glory  is  thus 
permitted  to  me,  a  poor  sinner,  that  I  ought, 
and  that  I  can,  live  to  Him,  love  Him,  and 
devote  myself  to  Him  !  It  is  heaven  already 
begun  on  earth ;  for  in  heaven  my  soul  will 
enjoy  no  other  happiness  than  that  of  knowing 
God,  and  living  to  His  glory.  This  thought 
fills  me  writh  joy,  and  I  am  encouraged  by  it 
to  consecrate  myself  wholly  t)  Him,  as  did 
my  Lord  and  Savioui 


THE   MODERN  DORCAS.  135 

"  Lastly,  I  will,  by  the  grace  c£  God,  imi- 
tate Jesus  in  his  charity.  How  many  souls 
there  are  about  me  to  love,  to  comfort,  to 
enlighten  and  to  assist.  But  I  can  only  do  it 
in  the  measure  which  God  himself  has  assigned 
to  me.  At  my  age,  and  but  a  girl,  subject  to 
the  wishes  of  my  parents,  I  ought  only  to 
desire  to  do  good  in  proportion  to  the  means 
with  which  the  Lord  has  furnished  me.  But 
I  must,  in  so  doing,  endeavor  to  overcome 
selfishness,  idleness,  the  love  of  ease,  avarice, 
hardness  of  heart,  pride,  and  indifference,  and 
I  must  love  my  neighbor  as  myself.  Oh! 
what  an  important  undertaking,  and  how 
many  excuses  and  deceits  this  kind  of  charity 
will  encounter  and  overcome. 

"  But  I  will  look  to  Jesus,  and  pray  to  him ; 
I  will  implore  the  secret  guidance  of  his 
Spirit ;  and  since  he  is  faithful,  he  will  not 
leave  me  alone,  but  will  lead  me,  and  enable 
me  to  walk  day  by  day,  I  mean  '  to-day/  in 
his  sight,  and  in  communion  with  him,  who  is 
so  full  of  love  and  gentleness." 

This,  my  dear  Esther,  is  what  I  have  copied 


136  THE   MODERN  DORCAS. 

from  Amelia's  journal.  You  see  the  light  m 
which  our  friend  regarded  her  life  on  earth, 
and  how  much  importance  she  attached  to  one 
dtiy — a  single  day. 

As  I  read  what  sh«  had  written,  I  felt  my 
soul  humbled  before  God,  and  I  trembled  to 
think  of  the  useless  way  in  which  I  had  hith- 
erto spent  my  time. 

You  see  in  particular  what  Amelia  felt  on 
the  subject  of  piety  ;  what  love  her  soul  had 
for  God  !  and  this  is  what  produced  in  her 
that  active,  sincere,  and  constant  charity. 

You  cannot  form  the  least  idea  of. the  works 
of  kindness  and  benevolence  which  she  was 
enabled  to  accomplish.  That  passage,  "  The 
memory  of  the  just  is  blessed,"  is  truly  appli- 
cable to  her. 

Amelia  was  justified  in  her  Saviour,  for  she 
trusted  in  him,  and  thus  was  she  also  justified 
before  God,  by  her  faith  in  Jesus.  The  spirit 
of  Jesus  led  her  in  "  all  her  way,"  and  in 
whatever  family  she  appeared,  her  actions  and 
words  manifested  a  heavenly  mind. 

Her  naine  is  remembered  with  blessing  in 


THE- MODERN  DORCAS.  137 

the  hearts  of  all  who  knew  her ;  her  counsels, 
her  instructions,  her  example,  and  her  acts  of 
benevolence,  are  continually  spoken  of  by 
those  who  witnessed  them,  and  it  is  thus  that 
she  left  behind  a  sweet  savor  of  holiness,  like 
a  ray  of  heavenly  light. 

Dear  Esther,  here  is  an  example  placed 
before  us ;  it  has  been  the  will  of  God  that  we 
should  know  her,  that  we  might  be  charmed 
with  her  excellence,  and  that  the  happiness 
both  of  her  life  and  death,  might  tempt  us  to 
imitate  her. 

No,  no,  my  sister,  she  is  not  dead  ;  she  ia 
rather,  as  the  poor  workman  said,  at  her 
grave,  "  a  child  of  God  in  heaven."  As  she 
followed  Jesus,  let  us  also  follow  her,  and  let 
her  memory  be  thus  a  blessing  to  us  both. 

God  be  with  you,  my  dear  sister.     I  long 
to  see   you,    that   we   may   pray    the    Lord 
together,  to  make  us  like  his  faithful,  holy 
servant,  the  dear  and  pious  Amelia. 
Yours,  &c, 

Anna- 
12* 


IV. 

®|t  fact  fomft  bj  %  Mag-^ifce. 

"Take  away  the  dross  from,  the  silver,  and  there  shall 
come  forth  a  vessel  for  the  finer." — Prov  zxv,  4. 

Every  one  knows  in  these  days  what  is 
meant  by  a  religious  tract.  It  is  a  little  printed 
pamphlet,  which  is  sold  at  a  very  low  price, 
or  is  still  oftener  given  away,  or  dropped  in 
the  streets  and  lanes,  that  those  who  either 
purchase,  or  accept,  or  find  them,  may  read 
the  truths  of  the  Gospel,  and  the  good  advice 
which  they  contain. 

This  is  an  old  fashioned  way  of  imparting 
instruction,  both  to  high  and  low.  It  was  in 
use,  for  instance,  as  early  as  the  first  days  of 
the  Reformation,  when  some  faithful  Christians 
of  Picardy,  in  France,  assembled  together  to 
read  the  Holy  Scriptures,  on  which  account 
they  were  exposed  to  persecution,  death,  and 
above  all,  to  be  burnt  alive. 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  139 

These  true  disciples  of  the  Lord  Jesus  com 
posed  and  distributed,  with  considerable  diffi- 
culty, some  little  pamphlets,  in  which  were 
taught  the  doctrines  of  salvation  by  Christ 
alone,  and  in  a  form  which  enabled  the  poor 
and  ignorant  to  read  and  understand ;  for  it 
was  impossible  for  them  at  that  time  to  procure 
a  Bible,  which  was  not  only  a  scarce  book,  but 
cost  a  large  sum  of  money :  indeed,  almost  as 
much  as  a  thousand  Bibles  would  cost  in  the 
present  day,  and  which,  besides,  they  could 
not  carry  home  and  read  quietly  to  themselves, 
as  they  were  able  to  do  with  a  simple  tract. 

At  a  later  period,  and  chiefly  for  the  last 
fifty  years,  this  method  has  been  adopted  in 
almost  all  countries  where  true  Christian 
churches  and  societies  have  been  established ; 
and  even  now,  millions  of  these  tracts,  adapted 
to  all  ages  and  conditions  of  men,  are  published 
and  distributed  every  year. 

It  is,  however,  but  too  true,  that  many 
tracts  thus  distributed  are  not  religious  tracts  ; 
that  is  to  say,  the  substance  of  them  is  not  in 
conformity  with  the  truth  of  scripture1.     Many 


140      THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

are  published  for  the  purpose  of  upholding 
false  religion  and  wicked  principles,  and 
which,  consequently,  do  great  mischief  to 
those  who  read  them. 

And  if  it  be  asked,  •  How  can  a  good  tract 
be  distinguished  from  a  bad  one?"  we  thus 
reply  to  this  very  natural  question. 

A  good  tract  is  that  which  leads  us  to  the 
Bible ;  which  speaks  of  the  love  of  God  in 
Christ ;  and  which  encourages  the  reader  to 
be  holy  from  a  motive  of  love  to  God. 

A  bad  tract  is  therefore  that  which  does  not 
speak  of  the  Bible ;  which  tells  us  that  salva- 
tion may  be  obtained  by  human  merit,  and 
which  consequently  would  persuade  us  to  be 
religious  from  interested  motives:  that  is  to 
say,  to  obtain  pardon  by  means  of  our  own 
good  works. 

Those  tracts,  too,  which  speak  of  man's 
happiness  as  if  it  came  from  man  alone,  and 
not  from  God,  and  which  consequently  deny 
the  truth  of  God's  word :  these  must  also  be 
called  bad  tracts,  and  must  therefore  be  care- 
fully avoided. 


THE  TEACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.  141 

The  good  that  is  done  by  the  distribution 
of  good  tracts,  can  scarcely  be  believed. 
There  are  many  families,  even  in  prosperity, 
who  never  tasted  real  happiness  until  some  of 
these  evangelical  writings  found  their  way 
amongst  them.  The  following  anecdote  is  an 
interesting  proof  of  this : 

The  family  of  a  vinedresser,  in  the  Canton 
of  Yaud,  in  Switzerland,  was,  unhappily,  as 
well  known  in  the  village  in  which  he  lived, 
for  his  bad  conduct,  as  for  his  impiety.  The 
father,  whose  name  we  will  not  mention,  was 
a  proud  and  hard-hearted  man,  both  intem- 
perate and  dissolute  ;  and  his  wife,  whc 
thought  as  little  of  the  fear  of  God  as  her 
husband  did,  was  what  might  be  called  a 
noisy  babbler. 

The  pastor  of  the  village  had  often,  but 
vainly,  endeavored  to  lead  these  unhappy 
people  to  a  sense  of  religion,  but  he  was 
always  received  by  them  with  scoffing  and 
ridicule. 

The  family  was  composed  of  the  vinedress- 
er's thre^  children.     The  eldest,  Mark,  was  as 


142      THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

haughty  as  his  father,  and  although  he  was 
only  fourteen  years  of  age,  he  was  already 
able  to  join  in  the  disorders  of  his  drunken 
and  gaming  companions.  He  was  entirely 
devoid  of  any  sense  of  religion.  His  sister, 
Josephine,  who  was  rather  more  than  twelve 
years  old,  possessed  a  more  amiable  disposi- 
tion. The  pastor's  wife  took  much  interest 
in  this  child,  who  could  not  help  seeing  that 
her  parents  were  not  guided  by  the  Spirit  of 
God.  Peter,  the  youngest,  was  but  ten  years 
of  age,  but  his  brother's  wicked  example 
counteracted  all  the  good  which  he  might 
have  received  from  that  of  his  more  amiable 
sister. 

About  the  end  of  May,  there  was  to  be,  in 
a  village  not  far  distant,  a  match  at  rifle-shoot- 
ing. It  was  a  public  fete,  at  which  all  the 
people  in  the  neighborhood  assembled. 

On  the  morning  of  this  day,  Mark  had 
answered  his  father  with  great  insolence,  at 
which  he  was  so  much  enraged,  that  he  pun- 
ished him  severely,  and  forbad  him,  besides, 
to  go  to  the  fete.    The  father  went  thither 


THE  TKACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAV-SIDE.   143 

himself,  and  Mark,  after  a  moment's  indecis- 
ion, determined  not  to  heed  the  command  he 
had  received,  but  to  follow  him  to  the  shoot- 
ing-match. 

He  therefore  took  advantage  of  his  mother's 
absence,  who,  according  to  her  usual  custom, 
was  gone  to  gossip  with  some  of  her  neigh- 
bors, and  notwithstanding  the  remonstrances 
of  Josephine,  he  hastened  over  fields  and 
hedges,  to  the  scene  of  the  match. 

"  What  is  this  ?"  cried  he,  picking  up  a 
little  pamphlet,  with  a  cover  of  colored  paper, 
which  was  lying  on  the  path  near  the  opening 
in  the  hedge.  "  Oh  !  it  is  one  of  those  tracts 
they  leave  about  everywhere ;  it  will  do  very 
well  to  load  my  gun  ;"  and  so  saying,  he  put 
the  tract  into  his  pocket,  and  ran  on  as  before. 

But  when  he  approached  the  village  where 
they  were  shooting,  dancing,  playing,  and 
making  a  great  noise,  he  suddenly  stopped, 
for  he  recollected  that  if  he  should  meet  with 
his  father,  who  was  there,  he  would  certainly 
beat  him,  and  send  him  home  again,  in  pres- 
ence of  all  the  people  who  might  be  assem- 


144  THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAT-SIDE. 

bled ;  besides,  his  brother  Peter  was  there 
also,  and  he  might  see  him,  and  tell  his  father. 
He  therefore  kept  at  a  distance,  behind  a 
hedge,  not  daring  to  advance  any  farther. 

"  Supposing  I  read  this  book !"  said  he,  at 
last,  after  having  vainly  racked  his  brain  to 
find  out  how  he  could  be  at  the  fi§te  without 
being  discovered.  "  There  is  nothing  in  it 
but  nonsense,  I  know  beforehand ;  however, 
it  will  occupy  me  for  a  while." 

This  tract  was  called  "  The  Happy  Family," 
and  Mark  became  so  much  interested  in  it, 
that  he  not  only  read  the  whole,  but  many 
parts  of  it  twice  over. 

"How  odd  it  is,"  said  he,  when  he  had 
finished  reading ;  "  I  should  never  have 
thought  it  could  be  thus  ;  this  Andrew  and 
Julia,  after  all,  were  much  happier  than  we 
are,  and  than  I  am,  in  particular.  Ah  !"  added 
he,  as  he  walked  on  by  the  hedge-side,  looking 
on  the  ground,  "  possibly  Josephine  may  have 
spoken  the  truth,  and  that,  after  all,  the  right 
way  is  the  one  which  this  lady  points  out." 

As  he  thought  over  the  little  story  he  had 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAYSIDE.     145 

been  reading,  lie  retraced  his  steps  towards 
his  own  village,  at  first  rather  slowly,  bnt 
goon  at  a  quicker  pace,  and  he  entered  his 
father's  house  very  quietly,  and  without  either 
whistling  or  making  a  noise,  as  he  generally 
did. 

"  You  have  not  then  been  to  the  fete,"  said 
Josephine. 

Mark. — (A  little  ashamed.) — "I  dared  not 
go,  I  was  afraid  my  father  would  beat  me." 

Josephine. — "It  would  have  been  better, 
Mark,  if  you  had  been  equally  afraid  of  of- 
fending God." 

Mark  was  on  the  point  of  ridiculing  her,  as 
he  always  did,  but  he  recollected  Andrew  and 
Julia,  and  was  silent. 

Josephine. — (Kindly.) — "  But  is  it  not  true, 
Mark?  would  it  not  be  better  to  fear  God, 
than  to  be  always  offending  him  ?" 

Mark — (Knitting  his  brow.) — "  Yes,  as  An- 
drew and  Julia  did  I  would  it  not?" 

Josephine. — (surprised.) — (  Of  whom  do  you 
Bpeak,  Mark ?  Is  it  of  "The  Happy  Family/1 
in  which  an  Andrew  and  a  Julia  are  men- 
13 


146     THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

tioned.  Have  you  ever  read  that  beautiful 
story  ?" 

"  Here  it  is,"  said  Mark,  drawing  the  tract 
from  his  pocket,  and  giving  it  to  his  sister. 

Josephine. — "Yes,  this  is  it,  exactly  I  But 
brother,  where  did  you  get  it,  for  it  is  quite 
new;  did  you  buy  it  of  a  Scripture  Reader." 

"Did  l'buy  it?"  said  Mark,  sullenly.  'Do 
you  suppose  I  should  spend  my  money  in  such 
nonsense  as  that?" 

Josephine. — "  Then  how  did  you  get  it  ?  Did 
any  one  give  it  you  ?" 

Mark. — (Slyly.) — "Ah  I  they  have  often 
tried  to  give  me  some,  but  I  tore  them  to 
pieces,  and  threw  them  away,  before  their 
faces!" 

Josephine. — "So  much  the  worse,  Mark! 
for  the  truth  of  God  is  written  in  them,  and  it 
is  very  sinful  to  tear  the  truth  of  God  in  pieces." 

Mark. — (Rudely.) — "  But  you  see  I  have 
not  torn  this,  for  it  is  quite  whole  I  And  as 
you  are  so  anxious  to  know  how  I  came  by 
it,  I  found  it  on  the  ground,  near  the  road, 
and  just  beyond  the  brushwood." 


THE  TRACT  FOUNT  BY  THE  WAT-SIDE.  147 

Josephine. — "Ah!  then  I  know  where  it 
came  from.  The  Pastor's  son,  and  the  two 
sons  of  the  schoolmaster,  have  got  up  a  Kelig- 
ious  Tract  Society,  who  distribute  them  in  all 
directions." 

Mark. — (Reproachfully.) — "And  pray  why 
do  they  scatter  them  about  in  this  way  ?  Can't 
they  leave  people  alone,  without  cramming 
every  body's  head  with  their  own  fancies. 
Let  them  keep  their  religion  to  themselves, 
and  leave  other  people  to  do  the  same." 

Josephine. — "  Do  you  think,  Mark,  that  An- 
drew and  Julia  did  wrong  to  listen  to  their 
father  and  grandmamma,  and  to  follow  the 
precetps  of  the  Bible  in  preference  to  the  ridi- 
cule of  scoffers." 

Mark. — (Softened.) — "  I  did  not  say  that .  . 
I  think  Andrew  and  Julia  were  right ;  but . . . 
come  give  me  back  the  Tract;  I  want  to  look 
at  something  in  it  again." 

Mark  then  went  away,  carrying  the  Tract 
with  him;  and  shortly  after,  Josepnme  saw 
him  sitting  in  the  garden,  behind  a  hedge  of 
sweet-briar,  reading  it  attentively. 


148     THE  TBACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

{' Where's  that  good-for-nothing  Mark?"  de« 
manded  the  vinedresser,  when  he  returned 
home  at  night  half  tipsy.  "Did  he  dare  to 
venture  to  the  shooting-match?  I  was  told 
that  he  was  seen  sneaking  about  the  outskirts 
of  the  village!  where  is  he  now?" 

"  He  went  to  bed  more  than  an  hour  ago," 
answered  his  mother,  "and  was  no  more  at 
the  shooting-match  than  I  was,  for  I  saw  him 
reading  in  the  garden." 

"Mark,  reading!"  replied  his  father.  "What 
could  he  be  reading  ?  It  would  be  a  miracle 
to  see  him  with  a  book  in  his  hand.  An  idle 
fellow  like  him,  who  never  did  learn  any 
thing,  and  never  will!" 

The  vinedresser's  wife  was  silent,  and  after 
putting  poor  little  Peter  to  bed,  who  was  quite 
tired  and  weary,  she  managed  to  get  the  father 
to  bed  also,  and  peace  reigned  for  a  season  in 
this  miserable  abode. 

Mark,  however,  who  was  not  asleep  when 
his  father  returned,  had  heard  himself  called 
a  good-for-nothing  idle  fellow,  and  he  trem- 
bled from  head  to  foot,  when  he  fouri  he 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY  SIDE.      149 

had  been  seen  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
village. 

"What  a  good  thing  it  was,"  said  he  to 
himself,  "  that  I  did  not  go  on  I  It  was  cer- 
tainly God  who  prevented  me  I"  added  he, 
half  ashamed  of  the  thought  because  it  was 
so  new  to  him ;  but  he  determined  no  longer 
to  resist  it. 

On  the  morrow,  to  the  great  surprise  of  his 
father  and  mother,  Mark  got  up  in  good 
humor  ;  he  answered  his  father  without 
grumbling,  and  when  he  was  desired  to  go 
and  work  in  the  field,  Mark  hastened  to  take 
his  hoe  and  spade,  and  set  off,  singing  merrily. 

"  What  has  happened  to  him  ?"  asked  the 
father.  "  One  would  scarcely  believe  it  was 
he !  Wife,  what  did  you  say  to  him  yester- 
day, to  make  him  so  good-humored  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"  I  never  even  spoke  to  him,"  said  his  wife, 
dryly.     "  You  know  how  whimsical  he  *s." 

"  I  wish  he  may  remain  in  his  present 
mind !"  said  the  vinedresser ;  and  thereupon 
he  went  off  to  the  ale-house,  to  talk  with  hia 
13* 


150  THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

neighbors  of  the  best  shots  of  the  preceding 
day. 

Josephine  related  the  history  of  the  little 
tract  to  the  good  pastor's  wife,  who  advised 
her  to  meet  Mark  on  his  return  from  the  field, 
and  to  speak  to  him  again  of  what  he  had  read. 

"  Is  it  you,  sister  ?"  said  Mark,  in  a  happy 
tone  of  voice,  as  soon  as  he  saw  her.  "  It  ia 
very  good  of  you  to  meet  me." 

Josephine,  who  never  received  such  a  wel- 
come from  him  before,  was  quite  delighted, 
and  going  up  to  him,  she  said,  affectionately, 
"  I  want  very  much  to  talk  with  you  again 
about  Andrew  and  Julia." 

Mark. — (Seriously.) — "  And  so  do  I.  I 
should  like  very  much  to  resemble  them." 

Josephine.  —  (Quickly.)  —  "  Do  you  mean 
what  you  say,  Mark  ?  Have  you  thought  of 
it  again  since  yesterday  ?" 

Mark. — (Still  serious.) — "  I  have  thought  so 
much  about  it,  that  I  am  determined  to  change 
my  habits.  Yes,  Josephine,  I  think  you  are 
right,  and  that,  after  all,  religion  is  better  than 
ridicule." 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SHE.     151 

The  conversation  continued  as  it  had  com- 
menced, and  when  Mark  returned  home,  he 
went  up  and  kissed  his  mother,  who  was  just 
laying  the  table  for  dinner. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  said  she,  with  som 
surprise  ;   "  you  seem  in  very  good  spirits  to- 
day." 

"  Nothing  is  the  matter,  good  mother,  but 
that  I  wish  to  alter  my  conduct,"  replied 
Mark,  seriously. 

"  To  alter  your  conduct,"  cried  little  Peter, 
as  he  looked  up  in  his  brother's  face,  and 
began  to  titter. 

"  And  you,  too,  little  Peter,"  said  Mark, 
"you  must  become  good,  also." 

"  What  a  funny  idea,"  cried  the  child, 
laughing.  "  What  has  made  you  turn  school- 
master, all  at  once  ?  and,  pray,  when  am  I  to 
begin?" 

"  We  shall  see  by-and-bye,"  said  Mark, 
kindly.  "  In  the  meantime,  come  and  help 
me  to  tend  the  cow." 

"  There  is  something  behind  all  this  !"  said 
the  mother     and  she  blushed  to  think  that 


152   THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

this  change  had  not  been  occasioned  by  any. 
thing  she  had  said  or  done  to  him,  herself. 

When  the  father  returned  from  the  ale- 
house, they  all  sat  down  to  dinner,  and  aa 
usual,  without  saying  "grace"  Josephine 
said  her's  to  herself,  and  Mark,  who  recol- 
lected Andrew  and  Julia,  blushed  when  he 
took  his  spoon  to  eat  his  soup. 

After  dinner,  when  they  were  out  of  the 
house,  Josephine  said  to  Mark,  "  What  a  pity 
it  is,  brother,  that  papa  does  not  pray  before 
each  meal." 

11  All  that  will  come  in  time,  Josephine," 
said  Mark ;  "  I  never  prayed  myself,  and  yet 
.  .  .  .  I  must  now  begin  directly.  But  what 
shall  I  do  ?  Papa  will  be  very  angry  if  he 
sees  me  religious." 

"  I  do  not  think  he  will,"  said  Josephine, 
li  for  I  heard  him  say  to  mnmma,  this  morn- 
ing, that  he  should  be  very  glad  if  your 
conduct  improved." 

Mark  blushed,  bui  did  not  reply.  He 
returned  to  his  work  without  being  desired  to 
do  so,  and  his  father,  who  was  quite  aston* 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAT-SIDE.  153 

ished,  said  to  his  wife,  "  There  is  something 
very  extraordinary  about  Mark.  I  wish  it 
may  last." 

"  You  wish  it  may  last !"  said  his  wife ; 
"  how  can  you  wish  that,  when  you  do  not 
care  to  improve  yourself." 

"  And  you,  my  poor  wife,"  said  the  vine- 
dresser, "  do  you  care  to  change  any  more 
than  I  do?  I  think  as  to  that  matter,  we 
cannot  say  much  against  each  other." 

"  Well,  at  all  events,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  am 
not  a  drunkard." 

"  Nor  am  I  a  tattler,"  replied  the  husband. 
"  And  for  this  reason  let  us  each  think  of  our 
own  fault,  and  if  Mark  is  disposed  to  reform, 
do  not  let  us  prevent  him  ;  for,  my  poor  wife, 
our  example  is  not  a  very  good  one  for  him." 

Josephine,  who  was  working  at  her  needle, 
in  the  adjoining  room,  could  not  help  over- 
hearing this  confession  of  her  father,  and  she 
felt  the  more  encouraged  to  uphold  Mark  in 
his  good  intention. 

She  therefore  went  again  to  meet  him,  and 
repeated  to  him  all  she  1  ad  heard.    "  I  think," 


254     THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

added  she,  "  you  will  do  well  to  relate  what 
has  happened  to  our  father  and  mother,  and 
read  them  the  little  tract." 

"  Not  yet,"  said  Mark,  "  for  my  principles 
are  not  sufficiently  strong.  It  is  but  an  hour 
since  the  ale-house  keeper's  son  laughed  at 
mo,  because  I  told  him  I  would  not  play  at 
nine-pins  with  him,  during  working  hours. 
He  asked  me  if  I  was  becoming  a  Methodist, 
and  I  did  not  know  what  answer  to  make. 
However,  I  trust  I  am  already  improving,  and 
I  have  read  the  little  tract  again  for  the  third 
time." 

"  Oh  !"  said  Josephine,  "  we  ought  to  read 
the  Bible,  and  ,ve  do  not  possess  one." 

"  True,"  said  Mark,  somewhat  surprised. 
"  I  never  thought  of  that.  We  have  really  no 
Bible  in  the  house !  Indeed,  this  must  not 
be,"  he  added,  looking  on  the  ground,  and 
striking  it  with  his  spade. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  then  ?"  said  Josephine, 
"  for  it  would  be  very  nice  to  have  one." 

Mark  became  thoughtful,  but  said  nothing 
From  that  day  his  conduct  was  always  regu 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.     155 

lar,  and  his  habits  industrious,  so  much  so, 
that  his  father,  who  was  never  in  the  habit  of 
showing  him  much  kindness,  said  to  him,  at 
the  dinner  table,  and  before  all  the  rest  of  the 
family,  "  Well,  my  good  Mark,  tell  us  what 
has  happened  to  you ;  for  it  is  very  pleasant 
to  us  to  see  how  well  you  now  behave.  Tell 
us,  my  boy,  what  has  been  the  cause  of  this 
improvement.'7 

11  It  was  from  this  book,"  said  Mark,  draw- 
ing it  out  of  his  pocket,  where  he  always  kept  it. 

"  What  book  is  it?"  said  his  mother,  scorn- 
fully. "  Is  it  not  some  of  that  horrid  trash, 
that 

"  Be  silent,"  cried  the  father.  "  If  this 
book  has  done  good,  how  can  it  be  horrid 
trash  ?     Do  sour  grapes  produce  good  wine  ?" 

"But,"  replied  the  mother,  bitterly,  "I  will 
not  have  any  of  those  books  and  tracts  in  this 
house." 

"  Well,  for  my  part,"  said  the  vinedresser, 
a  I  will  encourage  all  that  teach  my  children 
to  do  what  is  right.  Mark  has  worked  well 
for  the  last  eight  days ;  he  has  not  occasioned 


156  THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

me  a  moment's  vexation  during  the  whole  of 
that  time,  and  as  he  says  that  this  book  has 
been  the  means  of  his  improvement,  I  shall 
also  immediately  read  it  myself.  Come,  Mark, 
let  us  hear  it.  You  can  read  fluently  ;  come, 
we  will  all  listen.  Wife,  do  you  be  quiet,  and 
you  too,  Peter;  as  for  Josephine  she  is  quite 
ready." 

Mark  began  to  read,  but  he  could  not  pro- 
ceed far;  his  father  got  up  and  went  out, 
without  saying  a  word,  and  his  mother  began 
to  remove  the  dinner-things. 

But  as  soon  as  the  family  re-assembled  in 
the  evening,  the  father  said  to  Mark,  "  Go  on 
with  your  reading,  Mark,  I  want  to  hear  the 
end,  for  I  like  the  story." 

Mark  read,  and  when  he  came  to  that  part 
of  the  tract,  in  which  the  Bible  is  mentioned, 
the  vinedresser  looked  up  to  a  high  shelf  on 
the  wall,  where  were  some  old  books,  and  said, 
"wife,  had  we  not  once  a  Bible?" 

11 Fifteen  years  ago,"  she  answered,  "you 
exchanged  it  for  a  pistol." 

The  vinedresser  blushed,  and  listened  with 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.      157 

out  further  interruption  until  Mark  had  done 
reading.  When  the  tract  was  finished,  lie  re- 
mained silent,  his  head  leaning  on  his  hands, 
and  his  elbows  on  his  knees.  Josephine 
thought  this  was  the  time  to  speak  about  the 
Bible,  which  she  had  so  long  wished  to 
possess,  and  she  went  up  to  her  father,  and 
stood  for  some  time  by  his  side  without 
speaking. 

Her  father  perceived  her,  and  raising  his 
head,  he  said  to  her,  "What  do  you  want, 
Josephine,  tell  me,  my  child,  what  do  you 
want  to  ask  me?" 

"Dear  papa,"  said  the  child,  "I  have  long 
desired  to  read  the  Bible,  would  you  be  so 
kind  as  to  buy  me  one  ?" 

"A Bible," cried  her  mother,  "what  can  you 
want  with  a  Bible,  at  your  age?" 

"Oh!  wife,  wife,"  said  the  vinedresser, 
much  vexed,  "when  will  you  help  me  to  do 
what  is  right?"  "Yes,  my  child,"  he  added, 
kissing  Josephine's  cheek,  "I  will  buy  you 
one  to-morrow.  Do  you  think  there  are  any 
to  be  had  at  the  pastor's  house  ?" 
14 


158  THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE. 

"  Oh  I  yes,  plenty,"  cried  Josephine,  "  and 
very  large  ones  too !" 

"  Very  well  then,"  said  the  father,  as  he  got 
up,  and  went  out  of  the  house,  "you  shall 
have  a  very  large  one." 

"But,"  said  his  wife,  calling  after  him, 
"  you  don't  know  how  much  it  will  cost." 

"  It  will  not  cost  so  much  as  the  wine  I  mean 
no  longer  to  drink!"  replied  the  father,  firmly. 

He  kept  his  word.  The  Bible  was  pur- 
chased on  the  morrow,  and  the  same  evening 
the  father  desired  Mark  to  read  him  a  whole 
chapter.  The  ale-house  saw  him  no  more  the 
whole  of  that  week,  and  still  less  the  follow- 
ing Sunday.  His  friends  laughed  at  him,  and 
wanted  to  get  him  back.  He  was  at  first 
tempted  and  almost  overcome,  but  the  thought 
of  the  Bible  restrained  him,  and  he  deter* 
mined  to  refuse. 

"Are  you  gone  mad,  then?"  said  they. 

"No,"  replied  he,  "but  I  read  the  Bible 
now,  and  as  it  says,  that  drunkards  shall  not 
1  inherit  the  kingdom  of  God,'  I  listen  to  what 
it  says,  and  I  desire  to  cease  to  be  a  drunkard." 


THE  TRACT  FOUND  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE.      159 

"  You  see,"  said  Josephine  to  Mark,  as  they 
accompanied  each  other  to  church,  "how  good 
God  has  been  to  us.  "We  have  now  a  Bible, 
and  it  is  read  by  all  at  home." 

Mark, — "Have  you  been  able  to  tell  the 
pastor's  son  how  much  good  his  tract  has 
done  us?" 

Josephine. — "  I  told  his  mother." 

Mark. — "  And  what  did  she  say?" 

Josephine. — "She  said,  'God  is  wonderful  in 
all  his  ways,'  and  that,  \  He  which  hath  begun 
the  good  work  in  us,  will  perform  it  until  the 
day  of  Jesus  Christ.' " 

Mark. — (Feelingly.) — "  Who  could  have 
thought  that  when  I  went  as  a  rebel  to  that 
Fete,  that  God  was  there  waiting  to  draw  me 
to  himself.  But.  dear  Josephine,  there  is  yet 
much  to  be  done." 

"  But,"  said  Josephine,  "  where  God  has 
promised  he  is  also  able  to  perform.  He  haa 
told  us  to  pray  in  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jesus 
Christ.  Let  us  do  so,  and  you  will  see  that 
God  will  renew  our  hearts,  and  make  us  wise 
and  good.7' 


^fctre*taSmetrdyt^flo^e3COr• 
"ur  happinesses  also*16 

18  ™  the  "nappy  coIuinn*y 
_ _       ~TAeA'inele€n(h  century. 


Faithful  .-Stall. 

Will  you  not  speak  once  more?    My  heart 
is   crying 
Through  the  chill  darkness  to  you!    Can 
it   be 
That  I.  .should  call  and  you  make  no  reply- 
ing, 
That  no  response  should  come  from  you 
to  me? 
Have  we  not  loved  each  other?    Have  we 
not,    bending 
At    the    same    shrine,    together    knelt    in 
prayer? 
Have    not    our    thoughts    in    absence    yet 
been   blending? 
Have  we  not  grieved  each  for  the  other's 
care  ? 
You   loved   me,    and,   though  ofttimes   sad 
and  lonely, 
Your  love  sang  like  an  angel  in  my  heart; 
I  loved  you— I,   one  amongst  many  only, 

Yet  you  did  set  me  in  some  place  apart. 
I  call— you  will  not  answer;  I  am  weeping 
Tears   that   there   is   no    hand   to     wipe 
away; 
Athwart  my  life  the  shades  of  Death  are 
sweeping; 
Do  you  not  know  it?     Yet  no  word  you 
say.  . 
Have   we    not    loved?     Oh,    bitter   end    of 
loving, 
Sflence  and  darkness!     Nay,   'tis  not  the 
end 
Cf    luve    like    ours!  v  'Tis    God    Himself    is  , 
proving 
How  much  the  heart  of  friend  can  trust 
in    friend! 
"Trust  me!" — so  once  you  urged  when  we 
were    nearest, 
When    I   could    hear   your   voice   and   see 
your    face: 
And    I    will    trust   you,    hold    you   still   the 
clearest, 
Will  ne'er  yield  up  the  sweet  Past's  per- 
fect  grace! 
Yea,  we  have  loved!    Love  knows  no  chang- 
ing ever! 
Do  we  not  love?     Dear,  with  unfalt'ring 
will 
I    cleave   to    you,    thotr^h    Life   and    Time 
may  sever, 
And     Death    between    us     sweep       more 
darkly    still. 
And,    though    I    call    snd    there    comes    no 
replying, 
And   though   I      know     not     now      your 
thoughts    of    me, 
Though  only   silence   raeets  my  heart-sick 
crving. 
And  no  fruition  of  EiF  faith  I  see, 
Though  all  my  pray'rs.  though  all  my  tears 
avail    not 
To   win  the   words  i   yearn  for—  I   still 
love!"—  .  .  .. 

Yet  will  I  trust,  yet   vill  be  sure  you  fail 
not ; 
Love,  crownless  here,  angels  may  crown 

SHIRLEY     WYNNE. 


